GLAMOURIE 


GLAMOURIE 


A     ROMANCE     OF     PARIS 


BY 
WILLIAM    SAMUEL    JOHNSON 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW       YORK       AND       LONDON 

M   C   M   X   I 


COPYRIGHT.   1911.    BY    HARPER   »    BROTHERS 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED    STATES    OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   MARCH.    1911 


TO 

C.    G.    J. 

IN     MEMORY   OF 

OUR    PARISIAN    YEARS 

TOGETHER 


2136376 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

PAGE 

To  SIR  MICHAEL  BURKE  .  -5  . 

ix 

I. 

BY  THE  "QUAND-MEME  !" 

i 

II. 

THE  SCREEN     

.     16 

III. 

THE  HALL  OF  THE  INNOCENTS 

.     26 

IV. 

GOLDEN  BURKE      .... 

.     40 

V. 

THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE  . 

.     64 

VI. 

A  WHOLE  YEAR     .... 

.     81 

VII. 

MOTHER  MAG  .      .      .      .      . 

.     102 

VIII. 

"JARNIPRISME!"      .... 

.     117 

IX. 

FIRELIGHT  

.     127 

X. 

STARLIGHT  

•     145 

XL 

"Si  LE  ROI  M'AVAIT  DONNE"    . 

•     157 

XII. 

THE  TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 

.     171 

XIII. 

SPHINXES    

.     185 

XIV. 

THE  EARL  OF  ATHLONE    . 

.    203 

XV. 

THE  COMING  OF  GOLDEN  . 

.    212 

XVI. 

THE  HUNDRED  DAYS   . 

.    223 

XVII. 

LA  LANTERNE  DE  DIOGENE     . 

.    248 

XVIII. 

MECHANICS       .      .      .      .      . 

26l 

XIX. 

THE  Six  DAYS       .... 

•    275 

XX. 

GOLDEN'S  DREAM    .... 

.    287 

ENVOY   . 

2Q3 

TO 

SIR  MICHAEL  BURKE 

You  once,  my  dear  Sir  Michael — it  was  dur- 
ing that  great  morning  on  the  Lanterne  de  Di- 
ogene — you  once  defined  Art  as  a  part  of  man's 
effort  to  project  the  Thing,  by  love,  into  the 
over-world.  And  the  only  worthy  Art,  you  added, 
is  that  which  shows  this  effort. 

That  is  a  hard  saying,  my  friend;  yet  because 
you  said  it  and  because  you  will  read — in  the  in- 
tervals of  graver  matters — the  record  of  our  old 
days  together,  I  shall  make  those  words  of  yours 
my  touchstone  as  I  write. 

Love  and  the  Thing  and  the  Effort! — that  is 
all 

Well,  I  shall  try  to  please  you.  So  much  at 
least  you  will  read  in  every  stumbling  phrase. 
Yes;  you  I  am  sure  to  please. 

But  what  of  those  others,  Sir  Michael,  those  to 
whom  you  bade  me  tell  the  story  of  your  life  and 
love;  what  will  they  make  of  it  all? 

I  cannot  even  guess. 

It  will  be,  I  think,  the  strangest  story  ever  writ- 
ten and  yet 

You  know,  cher  maitre,  that  people  with  lazy 
ix 


TO  SIR  MICHAEL  BURKE 

souls  will  never  get  to  the  end  of  it !  They  will 
not  send  forth  their  imaginations  to  play  (like 
schoolboys  at  recess),  shouting  among  your 
thoughts ;  they  will  not  trouble  to  leap  the  gaps  in 
construction  (for  I  suspect  that  your  story,  qua 
story,  will  not  construct  at  all)  ;  nor  will  they,  in 
aid  of  your  poor  biographer,  catch  the  glow  of 
his  effort  worthily  to  love  the  Thing. 

Tant  pis! — the  tale  of  your  love  shall  be  told, 
come  what  will  of  it.  Perhaps,  as  you  predicted 
under  the  "Quand-Meme,"  it  may  be  read  by  the 
"neglected  children  of  isolation."  May  they  be 
very  many! 

In  this  hope  I  shall  begin  your  history,  as  you 
bade  me,  under  that  same  "Quand-Meme,"  and 
transform  you,  my  dear  Sir  Michael,  by  a  twist 
of  the  pen,  into  the  third  person  singular. 


PARIS 

PARIS,  PARFAICT.  PROPICE,  PLANTREVX 
AYANT,  ACCVEIL,  ATTRATIF.  AMOVREVX 
REPOS,  REQVIS,  REFVGE,  RECEPVABLE 
IOIGNANT,  EN  SOY.  IVSTICE,  INESTIMABLE 
SECOVRS,  SOVBDAIN.  SENTEMENT,  SAVOVREVX 

PLAN  DE  TAPISSERIE.  1540 


GLAMOURIE 


i 

BY  THE  "QUAND-MEME  !" 

"Jarniprisme!"  suddenly  shouted  Sir  Michael, 
"I  have  it,  Jack,  I  have  it!  You  shall  explode 
my  victory  on  an  astonished  world  as  a  Novel!" 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  I  protested,  "I  am  as 
unskilled  in  writing  novels  as " 

"You  shall  write  it,"  he  continued  blandly,  "as 
a  Novel;  or,  if  you  prefer  the  name,  as  a  Bi- 
ographic Fragment." 

"But — "  I  began  again,  when  he  cut  me  short. 

"Your  qualifications  I  shall  show  you  pres- 
ently," he  said ;  "but  I  deem  it  more  unusual  and 
altogether  jarniprismatic  to  consider  the  form  of 
the  work  first.  So  be  silent,  while  I  arrange  my 
thoughts." 

While  Sir  Michael  is  thinking  let  me  sketch  the 
stage  on  which  our  drama  (already  nearing  the 
close  of  its  fifth  act)  begins. 

That  stage  (ah!  I  must  introduce  it  with  Sir 
Michael's  favourite  triple  emphasis)  is  Paris! — 
Paris ! — Paris ! 

i 


GLAMOURIE 

It  was  summer  and  a  Tuesday.  A  Tuesday, 
did  I  say  ? — the  Tuesday — the  Tuesday  following 
the  Great  Unveiling  on  the  Lanterne  de  Diogene. 
So  we  were  both  still  vibrating  and  warm  with 
the  light  and  wonder  of  that  experience. 

Paris!  the  Paris  of  Sir  Michael  Burke!  and 
he  was  sitting  with  me  there  at  the  base  of  the 
statue  called  "Quand-Meme !"  within  the  site  of 
the  vanished  Tuileries,  "guests,"  as  he  said,  "of 
the  spirit  of  Catherine  de  Medicis  in  the  ghost  of 
her  palace." 

Between  us  and  the  Seine  rose  the  Pavilion  de 
Flore,  that  marvel  of  stone,  built  by  the  Hugue- 
not King  and  fluttered  over  by  the  tricolour.  I 
remember  asking  Sir  Michael,  early  in  our  friend- 
ship, why  we  loved  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  and 
neglected  the  Pavilion  de  Marsan  opposite,  its 
very  counterpart.  "Because,"  he  answered, 
"Henri  Quatre  built  the  Flore  and  Louis  Quatorze 
the  Marsan ;  and  his  soul  clings  to  the  grey  stones 
as  a  memory  haunts  the  grey  cells  of  the  brain." 
Fanciful  always,  my  dear  Sir  Michael ! 

The  Rue  des  Tuileries  formed  our  foreground. 
Along  its  wood-pavement  rolled  carriages,  auto- 
mobiles, tax-is,  sapins,  charettes,  bicyclettes,  all 
the  wheeled  things  of  Paris;  and  through  the 
clump  of  the  hooves  rose  now  and  again  the  vol- 

2 


BY  THE  "QUAND-MEME"! 

uble  engueulment  of  some  white-hatted  cocker. 
On  the  farther  side  of  this  bustling  traffic,  in  the 
gravelled  alley  between  the  ponds,  the  old  spar- 
row-charmer was  playing  with  his  birds,  the 
centre  of  a  ring  of  gazers.  At  times,  in  the  si- 
lences of  the  street,  we  could  hear  his  shouted 
salutations  and  commands  to  his  flock:  "Tiens! 
voila  M'sieur  le  Marechal!  Salue  le  drapeau, 
camarade!  Voila!  Mais  n'est-ce  pas  merveilleux, 
m'sieurs  et  'dames?" 

Far  away  toward  the  Arc  de  1'Etoile,  a  square 
dot  in  the  distance,  ran  the  broad  alley  of  the 
Gardens,  where,  framed  in  marroniers,  platanes 
and  the  old  Grangers  in  their  green  boxes,  one  saw 
a  vista  of  sauntering  crowds,  splashing  foun- 
tains, tossed  diabolos  (it  was  the  year  of  the 
diabolo)  and  that  indescribable  shimmer  and  mel- 
lowness that  envelops  Paris  and  its  dear,  loiter- 
ing people  on  a  sunny  day. 

"Paris,"  exclaimed  Sir  Michael,  who  had  been 
gazing  on  this  scene,  "is  the  only  city  that  thinks ! 
Something  flows  to  me  out  of  that  incurious 
crowd  of  bourgeois  flaneurs,  out  of  the  flaming 
parterres,  out  of  the  haunted  stones  of  the  Louvre. 
I  have  only  to  catch  that  Something,  make  it  ar- 
ticulate, and,  voila!  it  is  my  thought" 

"A  penny  for  it,  Sir  Michael,"  said  I. 
3 


GLAMOURIE 

"It  is  this.  You  will  write  my  story  as  a  Novel, 
as  I  said,  and  for  these  convincing  reasons.  It 
must  either  be  told  as  a  Poem — which  you  obvi- 
ously couldn't  manage " 

"Obviously,"  I  conceded. 

"  .  .  .  or  as  a  Novel;  or  as  a  Philosophy. 
Now,  my  Philosophy,  printed  as  a  book,  would 
be  shipwrecked  on  the  Scylla  of  not  being  read 
at  all,  or  on  the  Charybdis  of  being  read  too 
much!" 

"The  Charybdis,"  I  ventured,  "seems  a  remote 
danger." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it !"  he  shouted.  "That's  the  real 
danger.  Suppose — let  us  look  the  Gorgon  be- 
tween the  eyes — suppose  that  my  discovery  should 
appear  as  a  Philosophy  and  that  Boston  should 
take  it  up " 

"Good  Lord!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Ah,  you  see  the  Charybdis  now,  John  Dwight ! 
You  see  Boston,  that  Home  of  the  Higher  Hys- 
terias, mad  over  the  new  gospel !  You  see  Burke- 
ism  become  a  cult!  You  see  churches  arise, 
with  priests,  collection  plates  and  the  devil  of  a 
ritual,  where  the  Celtic  phiz  of  Michael  Burke 
smirks  at  the  worshippers  from  an  Ikon !  You  see 
my  room  on  the  Quai  Voltaire,  my  cache  on  the 
Quai  Bourbon,  shrines  of  pilgrimage!  You  see, 

4 


BY  THE  "QUAND-MEME"! 

nom  de  nom!  you  see  our  hallowed  Lanterne  de 
Diogene  trampled  by  Prussian  tourists  and  ogled 
by  kodaks,  while  a  raucous  guide  tells  his  gaping 
hearers  how  'Here  stood  the  Master  when  he 
began  the  Unveiling ;  Saint  Golden  sat  there ;  and 
Saint  John  Dwight  there.' ' 

"Good  Lord!"  I  repeated  feebly. 

"So,"  continued  Sir  Michael,  "with  the  fear  of 
Boston  before  my  eyes,  you  shall  not  write  a 
Philosophy.  You  shall  not  found  another  Copy- 
righted Cult.  You  shall  tell  the  thing  as  a 
Novel " 

I  groaned  aloud,  well  knowing  that  in  the  end 
I  should  do  as  he  wished. 

"Or,  as  I  said,  as  a  Biographic  Fragment. 
This  will  escape  the  presbyopic  eyes  of  the 
'Higher  Thought  Centres'  (save  the  mark!)  ;  this 
will  be  read  by  simple,  loving,  aspiring  souls ;  and 
this  shall  be  their  uplifting,  their  guide,  their 
lamp  through  the  world. 

"For  one  by  one,  Dwight,  one  by  one  these 
souls  shall  follow  me.  There  shall  be  no  church, 
no  creed,  no  cult;  yet,  one  by  one  as  the  tufts 
of  thistledown  float  from  the  peupliers  on  the 
banks  of  the  Seine  these  souls  shall  rise  and 
follow." 

Sir  Michael  seemed,  as  he  gazed  above  the  long 

5 


GLAMOURIE 

facade  of  the  Louvre,  to  be  watching  that  thistle- 
flight  of  souls. 

"What  shall  I  put  in  my  book,  Sir  Michael," 
I  asked,  "supposing,  that  is,  that  I  foolishly  try 
to  write  it?" 

"Simply  this — all  the  facts,  fancies  and  words 
of  our  life  here  together  that  lead  to  the  Lanterne 
de  Diogene:  our  walks,  our  talks,  our  daily  do- 
ings. Put  in  too  much  rather  than  too  little:  it 
will  hearten  others  if  they  see  how  the  little  man 
that  I  am  came  to  do  the  big  thing  that  I  did !" 

"Sir  Michael,"  I  said  solemnly,  "if  I  quote 
your  talks  none  but  Parisians  will  read  your  story. 
You  insult  the  English " 

"Only  the  Island-English;  and  I  have  the 
right — I  am  an  Irishman !" 

"You  insult  the  Germans " 

"Only  the  Prussians;  and  I  have  the  right — I 
am  a  Parisian!" 

"You  say  rude  things  of  New  York  and  sacri- 
legious things  of  Boston " 

"Guilty!" 

"You  attack  Catholicism " 

"True!" 

"And  Protestantism " 

"True  again !" 

"So  that  your  famous  book  will  be  read  by  no 
6 


BY  THE  "QUAND-MEME"! 

Englishman,  American  or  German,  Catholic  or 
Protestant." 

"True !"  assented  Sir  Michael  imperturbably. 

I  was  puzzled  and  showed  it. 

"Jack!  Jack!"  said  he  reprovingly,  "is  it  pos- 
sible that  a  year  of  companionship  with  Me  has 
taught  you  no  better?" 

"It  has  not  taught  me  that  national  and  re- 
ligious prejudices  do  not  exist,"  I  answered  stub- 
bornly. 

"No !  but  listen,  O  my  Jack,  and  learn  wisdom 
from  the  Fable  of  the  Ball  in  the  Roulette  Wheel 
at  Monte  Carlo ! 

"Listen  and  perpend! 

"Once  upon  a  time,  out  of  the  rubber  of 
Para,  by  the  process  of  Goodyear,  was  wrought 
a  Ball. 

"But  of  its  origin  and  making  the  Ball  knew 
nothing. 

"And  by  steamship  and  railway  and  much  hu- 
man and  equine  sweat  it  was  brought,  with  hun- 
dreds of  its  fellows,  to  one  of  the  many  great  gam- 
ing rooms  in  the  Casino  at  Monte  Carlo. 

"But  of  its  coming  thither  the  Ball  knew  noth- 
ing. 

"And  a  Croupier  spun  a  Roulette  Wheel  from 
left  to  right  and  tossed  the  Ball  on  the  spinning 

7 


GLAMOURIE 

wheel  so  that  it  whirled  from  right  to  left,  shout- 
ing as  he  did  so  'Faites  vos  jeux,  messieurs!' 

"But  of  the  Croupier  and  the  whirling  and  the 
shouting  the  Ball  knew  nothing. 

"And  the  whirling  ceased  and  obedient  to  the 
divine  law  of  chance  the  Ball  rolled  into  a  little 
red  box  numbered  seven;  and  the  Croupier 
shouted  'Le  Sept!' 

"But  of  the  great  law  the  Ball  knew  noth- 
ing. 

"And  then  the  Ball  suddenly  quickened  and  be- 
came aware  of  itself,  and  the  red  box,  and  the 
number,  and  the  wheel,  and  the  other  wheels  (  for 
they  were  many)  ;  and  it  lifted  up  its  voice  and 
spake  as  follows: 

"  'My  sect  is  Sevenism,  the  most  logical  and 
worthy  of  all  the  Odd  Sects.  I  am  a  convinced 
Sevenite!  May  all  but  our  respectable  sect  be 
socially  ostracised! 

"  'My  religion  is  Oddnumberism,  the  holiest 
and  most  tolerant  of  all  religions.  May  the  Even- 
ists  be  anathema! 

"  'My  political  opinions  are  red.  To  us  alone 
should  be  entrusted  the  turning  of  the  wheel. 
'Rah  for  Reddism ! 

"'My  Wheel  is  God's  Wheel!  the  comeliest, 
most  equitable,  most  evenly  balanced  of  all  wheels. 

8 


BY  THE  "QUAND-MEME"! 

My    rubber   glows    with   patriotic   Mywheelism 
when  I  think  of  it.' 

"And  as  the  Ball  finished  speaking  the  Croupier 
picked  it  up  and  it  knew  no  more. 

"That  is  the  fable,  Jack,"  concluded  Sir  Mi- 
chael. "What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

"Has  it  no  moral?"  I  asked  cautiously. 

"It  has,"  he  answered,  "and  a  mighty  one. 
Jack,  there  are  a  few  choice  souls  scattered  all  // 
over  the  big  world  that  are  Individuals.     Indi-  ^ 
viduals,  my  Jack,  spelt  with  a  great,  egotistical  I ! 
And  these  Individuals  (here  is  the  moral)    see 
sect  and  creed,  party  and  nation,  just  as  they  are 
pictured  in  my  fable. 

"And,  mark  me,  Jack!  these  Individuals  will 
hail  your  book!  They,  the  neglected  children  of 
isolation,  will  find  therein  the  thing  they  seek." 

"I  am  not  quite  satisfied  with  your  fable,"  I 
remarked.  "What  could  that  roulette  ball  do?" 

"Bounce!"  he  shouted.  "It's  the  business  of  a 
ball  to  bounce!  bounce!  bounce!  and  not  to  rest 
and  rot  in  Seven-oddnumberism  and  Red-my- 
wheelism !" 

I  sighed,  rather  discontented  with  the  probable 
size  of  my  audience. 

"What  of  my  qualifications,  Sir  Michael?" 

"They  are  threefold,"  he  answered.    "You  are 
2  9 


GLAMOURIE 

a  latent  mystic ;  you  are  a  noun-man ;  you  have  a 
matchless  memory." 

"A  mystic !"  I  exclaimed,  horrified. 

"Every  true  Yankee,  every  New  Englander," 
he  said  didactically,  "is  essentially  a  mystic.  He 
can't  escape  his  heritage.  He  may  be  a  country 
'storekeeper'  credulous  of  the  latest  tale  of  spirit- 
rapping  ;  or  a  Holmes  imagining  the  snaky  curse 
of  poor  Elsie  Venner ;  or  an  Emerson,  drunk  with 
the  Over-Soul :  the  effects  differ,  the  cause  is  the 
same.  It  is  mysticism,  Dwight,  that  strain  forever 
latent  in  the  Puritan  blood.  Now,  in  you " 

"It  is  diluted,  thank  God,  to  the  sixty-fourth 
degree  of  attenuation!"  I  interjected. 

"Diluted? — not  a  bit  of  it.  It  won't  submit  to 
dilution,  that  fighting,  praying  blood.  The  leaven 
is  there,  Jack;  and  sooner  or  later  it  will  wake 
and  ferment,  and  the  Yankee  will  begin  to  dream 
dreams  and  see  visions  and " 

"I  shall  not,"  said  I.  "I  shall  courteously  but 
firmly  decline  to  see  visions  induced  by  such  an- 
cestral fermentations." 

"Qui  vivra,  verra,"  said  he,  laughing.  "But 
now  for  your  other  qualifications.  You  will  admit 
that  you  have  a  memory  ?" 

"I  have  fairly  decent  mnemonic  powers,"  I  con- 
ceded. 

10 


BY  THE  "QUAND-MfiME"! 

"And  you  are  a  Noun-man?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  answered 
prudently. 

"Why,  Jack,  you  think  in  things.  You  see 
concretely.  The  world  is  no  film  of  adjectives  to 
you :  it  is  palpable,  hard. 

"Now,  only  a  Noun-man  can  write  my  story; 
for  it  is  real,  concrete.  You  have  not  to  record 
the  dreamings  of  a  lotus-eater  or  the  sentimental 
fancies  of  an  senemic  girl.  You  have  to  tell  a 
story  of  Fact ! " 

Sir  Michael  was  shouting  now. 

" — of  Things — Things  you  have  seen  and 
touched  yourself,  or  know  (as  you  know  your 
own  hand)  that  I  have  seen  and  touched.  My 
life! — as  you  have  watched  and  helped  it;  my 
words! — as  you  have  heard  and  believed  them — 
that  is  your  task." 

"Proceed,  Sir  Michael,"  said  I  resignedly. 

"You  will  describe  our  days  together.  Begin 
by  giving  the  reader  some  idea  of  what  you  were 
before  I  came  into  your  life." 

I  groaned  aloud. 

"For  instance,  picture  the  day  of  our  first  meet- 
ing, your  walk  up  the  roaring  Turbigo  to  the 
Hall  of  the  Innocents,  your  sensations  as  a  New 

England  Puritan " 

II 


GLAMOURIE 

I  groaned  again. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Sir  Michael  frankly,  "that  will 
be  a  mortally  dull  chapter.  But  write  it  never- 
theless and  draw  it  as  a  screen  across  the 
past.  It  will  serve  to  exhibit  you  as  you  used 
to  be." 

I  groaned  louder. 

"And,"  he  went  on  inexorably,  "the  biographer 
himself  must  be  exhibited.  If  Boswell  had  ex- 
punged Boswell,  how  insincere,  how  unconvinc- 
ing, had  been  his  work.  But  Boswell  drunk,  Bos- 
well penitent,  Boswell  pragmatic,  Boswell  ab- 
surd  " 

"That  will  do,"  I  pleaded. 

" — all  these  Boswells,  filled  with  faith  in  and 
reverence  for  their  great  friend,  build  up  his  mas- 
ter till  he  bulks  as  the  mightiest  figure  of  his 
time." 

"If  faith  only  is  needed,"  I  said  earnestly, 
taking  his  hand,  "you  too  may  bulk  for  some- 
thing  " 

"No!  No!"  he  interrupted,  his  voice  vibrat- 
ing, "it  is  not  of  Me  you  will  write,  not  of  Me! 
I  am  but  the  silken  clue  into  the  maze ;  the  glim- 
mer of  light  through  the  door ;  the  tiny,  trembling 
compass-needle  on  the  sea.  I  am  nothing;  and  if 
my  love,  my  mad  doings,  my  wayward  words, 

12 


BY  THE  "QUAND-MEME"! 

must  be  told,  they  must  be  told  only  as  facts  lead- 
ing to  the  central  fact  of  all." 

Then,  after  a  space  of  silence,  he  added  reflect- 
ively : 

"And  therefore  your  task  is  rather  difficult." 

"It  is,"  I  agreed  with  perfect  conviction. 

"It  is,"  he  repeated ;  "for  you  have  three  things 
to  do,  and  failure  in  any  one  will  be  fatal." 

"What  are  they,  Sir  Michael  ?"  said  I  drearily, 
producing  a  notebook. 

"First,"  he  answered,  "you  must  make  your 
readers  envisage  Me." 

"I  shall  try  to  do  that  by  recording  our  con- 
versations," said  I  humbly. 

"Second,  you  must  make  Paris  grow  from  your 
Paris  to  my  Paris." 

I  made  an  inarticulate  sound  expressing  anx- 
iety. 

"Third,  you  must  narrate  such  of  your  own 
days  after  the  Celtic  episode  as  the  story  demands 
and  your  modest  reticence  permits." 

"Is  that  needful?"  I  inquired  doubtfully. 

"Emphatically!"  he  replied.  "You  know  by 
what  subtle  mechanics  those  days  are  linked  to 
my  victory." 

"And  don't,"  he  added,  "forget  my  dear 
Prism." 

13 


GLAMOURIE 

"I  shall  not/' 

"Or  Mother  Mag." 

"Of  course  not." 

"Or  the  six  little  curates,"  he  said,  laughing; 
"or  that  tripod  of  mystery  I  made  for  you  in 
London." 

"I  shall  remember." 

"Or  the  old  sparrow-charmer  over  there,  who 
first  taught  me  the  individuality  of  the  individual 
— the  keynote  to  my  victory." 

"I  shall  forget  nothing,"  I  predicted  confi- 
dently. "But,  my  dear  friend,"  I  added,  an  ob- 
vious thought  suddenly  occurring  to  me,  "why 
don't  you  write  your  own  story?" 

"For  les  trente-six  raisons  d'Arlequin"  he  an- 
swered, smiling. 

"I  don't  know  them,"  I  said. 

"Why,"  he  explained,  "in  some  Italian  farce 
Harlequin  excuses  his  master  for  having  failed 
to  appear  at  a  dinner.  He  gives  thirty-six  rea- 
sons. The  first  is  that  his  master  is  dead." 

"But  you  are  not  dead,"  I  objected. 

"True,  most  literal  Jack — No;  my  first  reason 
is  that  my  story  must  be  told  from  the  outside  in, 
not  the  inside  out.  It  can't  be  autobiographic." 

And  Sir  Michael  Burke  rose. 

"This  too,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  looking  up 
H 


BY  THE  "QUAND-MEME"! 

at  the  statue  of  the  Alsatian  woman  taking  the 
musket  from  the  hand  of  her  dying  husband; 
"this  too,  this  'Quand-Meme !'  shall  be  a  sacred 
place.  For  here  John  Dwight  received  the  com- 
mand" (and  my  dear  Master  smiled  on  me  af- 
fectionately) "to  write  the  Story!" 

"A  fitting  spot,"  I  remarked,  "for  the  said 
Dwight  must  write  the  story,  quand-meme  his 
total  incompetency." 

"Jack,"  he  said  gravely,  "a  good,  big  quand- 
meme,  a  mighty  Notwithstanding,  is  often  a  rowel 
to  the  soul.  Look  to  it  that  yours  does  its  work !" 

"Quand-meme,"  he  said  musingly.  "Jack, 
after  all,  the  order  of  events  is  of  no  importance ; 
so  why  not  put  this  scene  first  in  your  book  ?  Let 
it  be  preface  or  prologue.  You  know  what  Pascal 
says :  "La  derniere  chose  qu'on  trouve  en  faisant 
un  ouvrage  est  de  savolr  celle  qu'il  faut  mettre  la 
premiere" 

"And  now,"  he  concluded,  taking  my  hand,  "a 
demain!  We  will  meet  at  the  studio  of  Q.  Tequi. 
He  was  mad  as  a  March  hare  this  morning." 

And  Sir  Michael  wandered  away. 

It  will  be  seen  that  I  have  adopted  his  sugges- 
tion, beginning  his  drama  (as  I  have  said  before) 
near  the  end  of  the  fifth  act,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
"Quand-Meme!" 

'5 


II 

THE  SCREEN 

PARIS! — Not,  alas!  the  Paris  of  Sir  Michael 
Burke  coloured  by  his  romance,  his  aspirations, 
his  explosive  enthusiasms. 

No! — It  is  a  thing  of  stone  where  many  folk 
are  gathered,  gazed  upon  by  a  protesting  Puritan 
eye.  That  is  all. 

Perhaps  I  was,  as  Sir  Michael  said,  a  noun- 
man  in  those  days.  Perhaps  New  England,  with 
its  granite  traditions,  held  my  senses  close  to  what 
I  was  pleased  to  think  the  Facts  of  things.  But, 
whatever  the  cause,  the  Paris  of  John  Dwight, 
student  of  law,  was  not  a  place  of  cheer. 

Yet  with  this  Paris  I  must  begin.  "Picture,"  com- 
manded Sir  Michael,  "the  day  of  our  first  meeting 
and  draw  it  like  a  screen  across  the  past." 

So,  noun-man  or  not,  I  look  back  to  that  epoch 
and  there  begin  the  story. 

The  morning  of  that  day  is  blotted  out.  It 
passed  in  spring  showers.  The  buds  in  the  gar- 

16 


THE  SCREEN 

dens  of  the  Luxembourg  may  have  felt  its  pas- 
sage.    I  did  not.     It  is  blotted  out,  gone. 

But  as  the  clock  on  the  garden  side  of  the 
Luxembourg  palace  struck  one,  memory  began 
to  etch.  I  remember  that  I  glanced  at  the  clock 
and  that  my  hand,  groping  in  a  pocket,  encoun- 
tered a  petit-pain,  saved  from  my  dejeuner;  and 
this  bit  of  bread  suggested  strolling  to  the  foun- 
tain of  the  Medicis,  where,  as  I  knew,  the  spar- 
rows paid  for  charity  by  a  semblance  of  friend- 
ship and  trust.  There  is  something  that  solaces 
loneliness  in  the  chirp  and  chubbiness  of  a  Par- 
isian sparrow. 

Wandering  to  the  fountain,  there  in  the  sound 
of  the  drip  of  its  waters,  I  fed  my  sparrows.  I 
see  one  of  them  now,  a  mother-bird,  all  nerve  and 
twitter,  that  fed  from  my  finger.  I  even  see  the 
white  feather  behind  her  right  ear,  noted  against 
future  meetings.  How  memory  dotes  on  her 
technique,  on  the  microscopic  tracings  of  her 
burin!  And  how  she  loses  for  us  glows  of  will 
and  emotion  that  we  need  in  later  days  to  warm 
and  quicken  us! 

So  I  played  with  my  sparrows  until,  the  petit- 
pain  having  been  eaten,  the  ingrates  left  me  to  my 
solitude.  And  it  grew,  this  solitude!  grew  to  be 
a  weight  and  an  emptiness  until  at  last  I  cried  (I 


GLAMOURIE 

was  then  looking  over  the  waters  of  the  fountain 
at  the  marble  lovers  lying  there),  "Walk  it  off, 
you  fool!  walk  it  off.  Away  to  your  cercle! 
Walk  it  off!" 

"Walk  it  off"  is  not  a  bad  system  of  philosophy 
for  any  creature  with  legs ! 

That  ramble  from  the  Fountain  of  the  Medicis 
to  the  Hall  of  the  Innocents  (as  I  afterward 
learnt  to  call  it)  is  the  screen  devised  by  my 
Master,  a  thing  covered  with  toil  and  pain,  a  tur- 
bulence of  men  and  women,  a  welter  of  life  and 
traffic,  sombred  here  and  there  with  glooms  of 
history — the  evil  wrought  by  dead  men  long  ago. 
And  the  screen  is  Paris — the  Paris  of  John 
Dwight,  New  Englander. 

Sauntering  out  by  the  gate  facing  the  grey 
'Pantheon,  there  on  the  "Boul  'Mich',"  as  I  had 
learned  to  call  it,  I  waked  to  the  life  of  the  city. 
The  shouts  of  vendors,  the  rattle  of  carts,  the 
fracas  of  the  Montrouge  tram  clanging  its  way 
to  the  Gare  de  1'Est — I  heard  each  sound  alone, 
as  jarring  notes  from  the  orchestra  of  toil,  un- 
tuned as  yet  by  association  and  habit. 

As  notes,  too,  each  cut  off  from  its  fellows,  I 
caught  a  detail  here  and  there,  snapped  up  as 
food  for  my  temper — a  red-nosed  cripple  har- 
nessed to  a  laden  charette,  limping  among  the 

18 


THE  SCREEN 

press  of  traffic ;  orange-coloured  sawdust  in  front 
of  the  cafes,  rain-sodden,  mixed  with  the  grey 
slime  of  the  street;  whiffs  of  absinthe  from  the 
tables;  the  sickening  smell  of  raw  flesh  from  the 
boucheries;  and  the  alcoholic  breath  of  a  reeling 
motor  'bus.  These  squalors  and  an  uneasy  sense 
of  others,  hidden,  nameless,  were  gathered  from 
the  passing  world  and  etched  on  my  screen  by  the 
mordant  of  an  acid  mood. 

The  chapel  of  the  Sorbonne! — "There  lies  the 
heart  of  Richelieu,"  I  thought.  "What  surgeon, 
with  what  patience  and  faith,  with  what  lenses 
and  forceps,  discovered  and  removed  it?  And 
why  save  that  heart  ? — Duguesclin's,  I  can  under- 
stand, or  Bayard's,  or  Montmorencie's,  'coeur  qui 
fut  coeur  du  roy  Henri  son  maistre';  but  Riche- 
lieu's ! — now  his  brain,  c'est  autrechose" 

The  Roman  wing  of  the  Cluny! — Ah!  how 
they  built,  with  what  brutality  of  effort  and  scorn 
of  time,  those  masters  of  the  dead  world.  Yet 
time,  for  all  their  scorn,  came  with  his  tapping 
hammer  strokes;  and  the  strong  walls  crumbled; 
and  the  empire  wasted  away ;  and  the  short  sword 
of  Rome  was  beaten  into  the  great  key  of  St. 
Peter,  a  deadlier  weapon  that  and  symbol  of  a 
redder  tyranny. 

With  this  thought  in  mind  and  its  army  of  at- 
19 


GLAMOURIE 

tendant  images — the  thumbscrew,  the  rack,  the 
crackling  fagots — I  crossed  the  Pont  St.  Michel, 
scarcely  glancing  at  Notre  Dame  or  the  Heche 
of  Ste.  Chapelle;  and  still  with  this  thought, 
now  waxed  to  a  whole  Reformation,  a  colos- 
sus of  Protestantism,  I  gained  the  Tour  de 
1'Horloge. 

The  Huguenots!  and  the  tocsin  of  Saint  Bar- 
tholomew, as  the  bell  on  this  tower  answered  the 
signal  of  Saint  Germain  1'Auxerrois !  My  colos- 
sus of  Protestantism  dwindles  and  cowers.  It 
shrinks  through  black  streets.  It  hears  the  cry 
"Tue!  Tue!"  becomes  a  thing  of  panic,  and  flies 
shrieking  to  cellars,  garrets,  the  river,  to  be 
sworded,  pistoled,  drowned,  done  to  death  in  a 
thousand  ways.  "Tue!  Tue!" — it  flees  past  the 
window  where  the  King,  carbine  in  hand,  watches 
and  shares  the  sport.  "Tue!  Tue!" — it  seeks  ref- 
uge with  the  great  Coligny.  No  refuge  there! — 
for  our  Admiral  lies  dead  in  the  street  and  the 
Duke  de  Guise  has  his  foot  on  that  calm  old  face : 
"The  good  Coligny's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  in  his 
blood " 

So  the  etching  on  the  screen  went  on;  and 
over  the  terrors  of  the  past,  now  making  a  back- 
ground of  blood  and  flame,  the  selecting  mood 
again  added,  touch  on  touch,  crudities  and  cruel- 

20 


THE  SCREEN 

ties  of  daily  life  gathered  as  I  walked  by  the  shops 
of  the  Quai  Megisserie 

Snails!  Escargots  de  Bourgogne! — thousands 
of  snails,  each  with  its  pulp  smeared  over  with  a 
greenish  wax 

Birds!  Grandes  oiselleries! — hundreds  of  birds, 
caged,  God  pity  them!  Rows  of  tiny  red-bills 
huddled  on  perches.  Cuddling  love-birds,  restless 
paroquets,  and  small  brown  things  whose  every 
flutter  spelled  liberty,  spaces  of  sky  over  forest 
treetops 

Traps!  Pieges! — iron  things,  jawed,  toothed, 
gaping,  with  springs  and  baits,  beguilements  and 
deviltries.  And  in  them,  stuffed,  dead  effigies  of 
torture :  a  fox  with  lolling  tongue ;  a  rat,  nipped 
flat  by  the  bowels ;  a  hawk,  leg-mangled ;  and  even 
one  of  my  sparrows.  A  mother  sparrow.  Sicken- 
ing, I  hurried  on ;  and  my  Protestantism  became  a 
nausea  and  a  hatred  and  invented  new  hells,  fitted 
with  every  modern  discomfort,  for  cruel  men. 

Away! — let  me  restore  my  shrunken  colossus 
before  the  plaque  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  that  tells 
how  "A  cette  place  s'elevait  I'hotel  OIL  I'amiral 
Coligny  pent  assassine  dans  la  nuit  de  la  Saint 
Barthelemy  le  24  aout  1572;"  and  then  let  me 
look  on  the  marble  face  that  gazes  from  his  monu- 
ment by  the  Oratoire  down  on  the  jostling  street. 

21 


GLAMOURIE 

It  stands  for  something,  this  monument,  in 
the  history  of  freedom.  Only  one  other,  to  my 
thinking,  bulks  so  large — that  of  the  cowled 
Dominican  that  dominates  the  Campo  di  Fiori  in 
Rome,  the  martyr  for  scientific  truth,  Giordanno 
Bruno. 

Yet,  alas ! — how  my  Admiral  would  have  hated 
my  Bruno! — how  my  Bruno  would  have  scorned 
my  Admiral! 

And  what  would  both  have  said  of  Jean- 
Jacques  Rousseau?  For  it  was  his  street — his 
egoism  would  writhe  at  its  exiguity ! — that  I  fol- 
lowed to  the  Halle  au  Ble  or  (to  give  it  its 
modern  name)  Bourse  de  Commerce.  Here  my 
mood,  still  seeking  pictures  for  the  screen,  led  me 
behind  the  building  to  the  column  of  Jean  Bullant, 
the  sole  remnant  of  the  old  Hotel  de  Soissons  of 
Catherine  de  Medicis. 

What  an  emblem  of  the  past,  that  column! 
There  she  would  climb,  the  poisoning  queen,  in 
what  dark  hours,  with  what  darker  thoughts,  to 
watch  from  the  iron  cage  at  the  top  the  swinging 
of  the  fateful  stars.  I  can  fancy  her  ghost,  a 
fearsome  thing  to  meet,  panting  up  the  winding 
stairs,  all  vibrant  with  hate  and  the  lust  to  queen 
it  still  in  the  world  of  the  dead.  Brrr ! — I  won- 
der if  the  concierge  of  the  Bourse  de  Commerce, 

22 


THE  SCREEN 

probably  libre-penseur  and  jranc-maqon,  would 
mount  that  tower  at  midnight  ?  Not  I ! — it  would 
mean  goose-flesh,  chair  de  poule,  at  the  least. 

No  more  shadows  of  the  past !  A  street  fight, 
white  faces,  fists  and  vociferations,  in  the  Rue 
Oblin  gave  me  a  picture  of  living  passion  until 
the  smaller  of  the  foemen  scampered  off  to  seek 
an  agent  de  police.  Following,  in  a  leisurely  way, 
his  steps,  I  skirted  the  scents  of  Les  Halles — 
whence  Paris  is  fed — and  turned  into  the  roaring 
Rue  de  Turbigo. 

It  runs,  this  roaring  Turbigo,  slashed  in  a  long 
diagonal  across  my  screen,  linking  Les  Halles  to 
the  Place  de  la  Republique.  It  is  slashed  across 
Old  Paris  too,  and  from  it,  right  and  left,  dark 
alleys  lead  to  the  slums,  whence  emerge,  in  times 
of  riot,  the  modern  sans-culotte,  to  be  driven,  by 
bayonet  and  sabre,  back  to  the  slums  again. 

And  the  Apache!  With  his  white  hands  care- 
fully tended,  his  feet  daintily  shod  with  noiseless 
shoes,  he  lurks  there  too.  He  knifes  you;  he 
garottes  you  with  those  white  hands;  he  leaps 
at  you  with  wolfish  howls  from  blacknesses 
and  chases  you  through  the  midnight  on  those 
silent  feet.  A  bad  sauntering  place  by  night,  this 
Quartier  du  Temple:  worse  still,  if  old  tales  be 
true,  in  the  days  of  the  Templars. 


GLAMOURIE 

Unsavoury  too!  Les  Halles  poison  the  begin- 
nings of  the  street;  and  as  I  jostled  on  I  caught 
other  scents — oh!  why  are  they  recorded? — va- 
pours oozing  from  an  open  egout  or  a  sour  cart  of 
the  traveaux  publiques.  And  from  the  stations  of 
the  "Metropolitain"  came  breaths,  warm  and  oily, 
from  the  underworld,  as  if  the  scurrying  things 
in  that  tiled  burrow  were  panting  in  thrice-used 
air. 

Indeed,  there  is  something  macabre  about  this 
"Metro."  Its  stations,  as  they  show  above 
ground,  have  a  suggestiveness  all  their  own; 
a  hint  wrought  into  the  iron  of  scull-things 
and  bony  remnants  of  the  charnel.  Even 
the  lamps  that  flank  the  stairs  seen  fungoid 
growths,  such  as  sprout  in  unlighted  decay, 
topped  with  bladdery  pollup  eyes  leering  side- 
long after  the  descending  traveller.  Art  de- 
cadent, putrescent! 

All  modernity,  this  roaring  Turbigo.  The  new 
shoulders  out  the  old.  Traders'  signs  speak  of 
the  ubiquitous  Teuton;  the  etalages  display  the 
needs  of  the  day;  and  great  streets,  roaring  too, 
are  gashed  across  Old  Paris :  Sebastopol  battling 
through  the  Marais;  Reaumur  cutting  through 
the  Temple.  And  the  once-worshipped  saints  of 
St.  Martin  des  Champs  see  their  church  a  museum 
24 


THE  SCREEN 

and  themselves  displaced  by  hydraulic  engines, 
pumps  and  other  squirts  of  science. 

Not  that  I  care!  Let  art  putrefy,  let  sci- 
ence squirt,  but  set  me  free  of  this  turmoil  of 
Turbigo.  So  I  tramp  on,  only  to  be  wedged  at 
last  in  the  crowd  of  women  in  front  of  "Au 
Pauvre  Jacques,"  a  shop  on  the  Place  de  la  Re- 
publique  that  traffics  on  the  sidewalk  in  "soldes, 
occasions  et  nouveautes."  Here  the  bronze  Re- 
publique  across  the  street  holds  out  the  olive  of 
peace  to  the  roaring  Turbigo. 

Escaping  from  "Au  Pauvre  Jacques,"  I  reach 
the  Boulevard  de  Temple.  A  few  paces  under  its 
bordering  trees,  leafless  yet  but  touched  by  spring, 
and  I  stand  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Chariot,  in 
front  of  the  Hall  of  the  Innocents. 

And  behold! — the  black,  protesting  mood  has 
gone.  I  have  indeed  "walked  it  off"!  But  the 
screen  it  etched,  a  thing  unchanging,  stands 
across  my  memory,  the  background  of  the  days 
to  come. 

"A  mortally  dull  chapter"!  predicted  the  Mas- 
ter. He  was  right,  as  always,  that  dear  Sir  Mi- 
chael ! 


Ill 

THE  HALL  OF  THE  INNOCENTS 

THE  shell  or  husk  of  the  Hall  of  the  Innocents 
does  not  hint  its  kernel.  It  calls  itself  "Maison 
Bonvalet."  It  boasts  that  it  contains  grands 
salons  pour  noces;  and  in  proof  thereof  one  may 
often  see  besatined  coaches,  beribboned  horses, 
beveiled  brides  and  men  in  evening  dress  arriving 
for  the  wedding  breakfast  and  the  afternoon 
dance.  It  allures  one  with  grands  concerts  and 
a  cinematograph  tons  les  soirs.  It  announces 
"bock  brune,  30  centimes,  tirage  direct  du  fut:" 
a  haven  for  thirsty  souls ! 

One  enters  and  meets  the  old  savour  com- 
pounded of  ages  of  tobacco,  spilled  liquor  and  I 
know  not  what  other  ghosts  of  conviviality.  And 
how  one  likes  it! 

One  glances  round.  The  usual  waiters.  The 
negro  in  his  red  coat.  The  white  sheet  stretched 
for  the  evening  show. 

Jacquet  has  begun.  The  dice  rattle  in  the 
26 


THE  HALL  OF  THE   INNOCENTS 

boxes  and  fall  on  the  baize  boards  and  the  great 
wooden  men  click  cheerfully.  For  jacquet  is  just 
backgammon  gallicised  and  taken  very  lightly. 

Poker,  too  (but  pronounced  pocaire),  is  play- 
ing, but  playing  en  franqais,  with  vociferation, 
not  with  the  wooden  faces  of  our  gamesters.  The 
bonshommes  play,  one  fancies,  more  for  fun  than 
profit. 

One  turns  then  to  one's  goal,  one's  own  coterie, 
and  one  crosses — but  no ! — this  shall  be  in  the  his- 
toric tense  and  egotistic ! 

I  turned  then  to  my  goal  where  the  Innocents, 
some  dozen  of  them,  were  already  at  work  over 
the  huge  chessboards.  Men  of  many  nations, 
races,  creeds  and  tongues  were  they;  but  all  one 
in  the  gentle  cult  of  the  great  game. 

Joining  them,  I  made  part  of  a  cluster  bending 
in  shouting  debate  over  the  current  difficulty. 

"Alors,  c'est  partie  nulle.  The  game  is 
drawn." 

"Jamais  de  la  vie!  It  is  not  drawn.  Voilal  I 
take  the  bishop." 

"Bon!    And  I,  I  mount  to  queen." 

"Oui;  that  goes  not.  Voyons!  I  push  the 
pawn." 

"But  what  can  he  do,  ce  beau  pion-la!  I  mount 
always  to  queen." 

27 


GLAMOURIE 

"Ah,  Id,  Id! — Quoi  faire? — Yes;  the  game  is 
drawn." 

I  agreed  with  this  decision  and  shook  hands 

with  good  old  Monsieur  S ,  whose  seventy 

years  have  not  abated  the  force  of  his  game. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,"  said  I,  "comment  qa  va?" — 
the  Innocents  are  not  formal — "Will  you  make  a 
game  ?" 

"Pas  aujourd'hui.  Je  suis  souffrant.  But  there 
is  a  monsieur" — and  his  old  hand  made  a  grace- 
ful curve  of  introduction — "un  monsieur  anglais 
who  plays  very  well.  I  think  that  you  are  about 
of  force." 

Thus,  by  a  casual  gesture,  was  my  real  life  be- 
gun. 

For,  looking  at  the  table  indicated,  I  saw,  on 
a  level  with  the  ranged  chess-men,  a  blond 
head  that  bowed  courteously  to  my  silent  salu- 
tation. 

"Shall  we  have  a  game?"  I  asked. 

"Gladly!"  he  answered  in  a  voice  that  had  a 
timbre,  a  lyric,  caressing  quality  I  have  never 
heard  in  any  other,  "Gladly!  and  let's  begin  it 
by  shaking  hands,  en  anglais,  and  exchanging 
names." 

He  slipped  down  from  his  chair  as  he  spoke 
and  came  round  the  table.  He  was  perhaps  four 
28 


THE  HALL  OF  THE   INNOCENTS 

and  a  half  feet  tall,  rather  hunchbacked  and  ex- 
cessively fragile. 

He  put  a  small  hand  in  mine,  saying,  "I  am 
Sir  Michael  Burke,  an  Irish-English-Parisian." 

"I  am  John  Dwight,  a  New  Englander." 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "I  lived  (if  such  a  baked-bean 
existence  were  life)  for  two  years  in  Boston  once, 
studying  the  Puritan  phase  of  humanity." 

"You  should  have  pursued  your  researches,"  I 
commented,  laughing,  "among  your  Dissenters  at 
home." 

"I  had  done  so  earlier,  for  my  sins,"  he  an- 
swered. "But  I  had  read  your  Emerson;  I 
wanted  the  Over-Soul — nom  de  Paris! — I  wanted 
the  Over-Soul!  And  what  did  I  find? — words! 
formulae!  cults!  baked-beanism !  brown-breadism ! 
Spirituality  must  be  kept  in  solution  to  be  bathed 
in,  wallowed  in.  Now,  in  your  New  England  it 
has  crystallised;  and  your  Boston  is  the  biggest, 
hardest  crystal  of  all.  So  I  kicked  it  and  left 
with  my  toes  tingling!" 

"And  here?"  I  suggested. 

"Here  I  am  dreaming  and  devising,  trying  to 
devil  my  way  into  a  difficult  region  of  thought. 
For  amusement  I  come  here  to  the  Hall  of  the 
Innocents ' ' 

"Ah,  I  like  that  name,"  I  said. 
29 


GLAMOURIE 

"Good!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  wanted  you  to  like 
it.  Names  bulk  big  in  this  voluble  world — old 
popes  and  young  sciences  alike  juggle  with  them. 
So  why  shouldn't  we  harmless  maniacs  hide  our 
mysteries  behind  a  dainty  phrase?  Mr.  Dwight" 
— this  was  added  with  whimsical  solemnity — "the 
forbidden  fruit  of  Eden  was  simply  gibble-gabble 
and  the  fig-leaf  was  just  some  wraprascal  word !" 

"And  you,"  he  asked,  as  we  sat  down  at  the 
table,  "what  do  you  do  in  Paris?" 

"I  fancy,"  I  answered,  as  I  held  out  my  closed 
hands  to  decide  the  move,  "I  fancy  that  I  am 
studying  international  law  at  the  Sorbonne." 

"A  hunting  code  devised  by  the  mice  for  the 
cats,"  he  commented,  touching  my  hand ;  "White 
— my  move." 

And  we  ranged  our  pieces  and  were  presently 
lost  in  the  silence  of  the  game. 

Now  and  then,  while  he  was  studying  a  posi- 
tion, I  could  watch  him  unobserved. 

His  face — how  shall  I  describe  it? 

Beauty  is  an  untenanted  word;  and  a  human 
face  is  a  haunted  house.  So  it  would  aid  the 
fancy  of  the  reader  but  little  should  I  write  that 
his  face  was  beautiful  and  that  it  shone  with  the 
soul  of  Michael  Burke! 

Yet  this  I  may  say  (to  be  concrete)  that  his 
30 


THE  HALL  OF  THE   INNOCENTS 

face,  as  I  watched  it,  brought  memories  of  great 
pictures,  thronging  memories  of  those  Florentine 
and  Venetian  comelinesses  that  fill  one's  dreams  of 
Italy.  And  as  I  watched  it  still,  these  blended 
into  one — the  face  of  the  Eve  of  Sodoma,  in 
Siena;  that  Eve  just  drawn  out  of  Hades,  that 
miracle  of  ghost  and  flesh. 

Note  this ! — I  do  not  speak  of  the  picture  itself : 
that  is  paint  and  canvas.  No! — but  of  the  face 
of  that  beatified  Eve  as  it  lives  in  the  memory  of 
one  to  whom  Siena  with  its  towers  lifting  up  from 
the  Tuscan  plain  is  a  place  of  tender  retrospects. 
Add  to  that  memory  a  virile  line  or  so,  a  touch 
of  Celt  and  modernity,  and  it  may  make  some 
poor  shadow  of  what  my  Master  seemed  on  the 
day  we  met. 

His  eyes,  now  flaming,  now  softening,  had  a 
strange  effect  of  glamourie;  and  to  complete  the 
pagan,  exotic  colour  of  the  man  his  red-gold  hair 
was  worn  rather  long,  waving  from  his  brows, 
the  hair  of  a  blond  bacchanal.  I  could  fancy  the 
vine  leaves  there,  wine-besprinkled ! 

"There!"  he  said  at  last,  as  he  took  a  piece, 
"the  game  is  drawn.  What  brutality! — just  mat- 
ter at  work,  the  shock  of  force  on  force.  We 
played  like  stocking-machines,  Mr.  Dwight.  We 
gave  the  gods  no  chance." 


GLAMOURIE 

"We  gave  the  gods  no  chance?"  I  repeated  in- 
terrogatively. 

"Ah,"  he  answered,  "I  play  chess,  as  I  live  my 
life,  for  the  divine  chance ;  for  the  Divine  Chance, 
spelt  with  emphatic  capitals.  I  play  for  the  in- 
finities of  complexity;  for  the  twisted,  knotted, 
tangled  intricacies  of  the  game;  for  the  woof  of 
your  little  tentatives  amid  the  warp  of  my  little 
tentatives.  Then,  perhaps,  one  of  us,  beautifully 
inspired,  creates  out  of  this  interweaving  of  com- 
plications something  exquisite,  spiritual,  forever 
memorable.  That  is  playing  the  game!" 

"So  chance  is  divine,"  I  said. 

"Surely,"  he  replied,  "since  it  has  its  laws.  And 
the  whole  cosmos,  from  the  whirling  nebulae  to 
the  whirling  thoughts  in  here" — he  touched  his 
brow — "is  its  work." 

"But,"  he  added,  as  he  set  the  pieces  for  an- 
other game,  "it  wants  results,  Mr.  Dwight!  It 
sponges  out  drawn  games.  It  wants  vibration! 
life!" 

"Most  lives  are  drawn  games,  Sir  Michael,"  I 
suggested. 

"The  lives  of  all  fools,  pharisees,  and  ticketed 
intelligences  are  drawn  games,"  he  assented 
gravely,  as  he  accepted  my  proffered  gambit- 
pawn. 

32 


THE  HALL  OF  THE   INNOCENTS 

We  played  the  rest  of  that  afternoon,  talking 
but  little;  and  I  succeeded  once  in  "striking  some- 
thing memorable  out  of  the  interweaving  of  com- 
plications." He  was  greatly  pleased. 

"Our  day  has  not  been  wasted,"  he  said,  taking 
the  matter  as  seriously  as  if  I  had  produced  a 
masterpiece  of  art,  "and  I  trust  that  an  acquaint- 
ance begun  with  such  a  happy  augury  may  ripen 
into  friendship." 

I  echoed  his  wish  and  we  shook  hands  and 
parted.  Watching  him  as  h,e  threw  on  his  long 
cloak  and  walked  down  the  room,  I  felt  a  sudden 
glow  of  tenderness  for  the  little  man.  I  wanted 
to  give  to  his  hunched,  fragile  body  some  of  my 
wiry  bulk,  my  useless  strength;  and  I  resolved, 
if  his  Divine  Chance  permitted,  that  I  would  be 
a  friend  to  Sir  Michael  Burke. 

The  Divine  Chance  did  permit;  and  we  often 
joined  its  cult  at  the  Hall  of  the  Innocents. 
During  the  snatches  of  talk  at  these  meetings 
(for  the  Innocents  never  converse)  and  during 
our  long  walks  home  from  the  Cercle,  I  learnt 
something  of  his  life,  fragments  detached,  in- 
consecutive, which  I  gradually  pieced  into  a  crude 
mosaic. 

Sir  Michael  was  born  of  an  ancient  Irish  fam- 
ily about  thirty-five  years  before.  His  mother 
33 


GLAMOURIE 

had  died  in  giving  him  birth  and  his  father  had 
married  again.  A  half-brother,  Ernest  Burke, 
three  years  his  junior,  was  born  of  this  second 
marriage.  The  death  of  his  father  and  step- 
mother some  years  later  left  him  and  his  half- 
brother  quite  kinless,  save  for  a  cousin  whom  I 
assumed  to  be  an  old  maiden  lady,  and  some  dis- 
tant relatives. 

His  ancestors,  it  seemed,  had  little  by  little  sold 
out  their  Irish  estates,  acquiring  in  Suffolk  a 
small  but  valuable  manor  that,  for  nearly  a  cen- 
tury, had  been  the  background  of  the  family  tra- 
ditions. There  was  no  cachet  of  England  on  Sir 
Michael,  however.  He  was  Irish  by  instinct  and 
choice. 

He  went  to  Oxford  and  seems  to  have  studied 
diligently  all  subjects  except  those  prescribed. 
"The  wine  of  Oxford's  learning  is  badly  corked," 
he  said,  "but  it  suits  the  Island-English." 

"Badly  corked!" — he  was  indeed  a  truculent 
pagan,  this  Sir  Michael. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  he  left  college  without 
laurels.  "I  learnt  more  from  a  certain  second- 
hand bookshop  on  'the  Broad/  "  he  remarked, 
"than  from  Oriel.  Indeed,  there  is  only  one  sys- 
tem whereby  an  Individual  (I  am  an  Individual, 
Mr.  Dwight!)  can  be  educated:  Keep  a  stream  of 

34 


THE  HALL  OF  THE   INNOCENTS 

knowledge  running  through  his  brain — what  he 
needs  will  stick  there!" 

But  Sir  Michael's  system,  however  excellent, 
leads  to  no  baccalaureates.  So  he  travelled,  seek- 
ing apparently  certain  phases  of  human  thought. 
He  had  been  a  year  in  Ceylon  studying  southern  .< 
Buddhism ;  eighteen  months  in  Germany  study-  *\ 
ing  the  monism  of  Haeckel ;  two  years  in  Boston 
studying  what  he  called  "transcend-baked-bean- 
ism"  and  the  polemic  aspects  of  early  New  Eng- 
land. He  had  mastered,  why  I  could  never  un- 
derstand, that  local  heresy  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury known  as  the  "Hutchinsonian  controversy," 
and  had  followed  every  step  in  the  career  of 
Bishop  Berkeley. 

Then  he  went  home  and  tasted  the  life  of  an 
English  country  gentleman.  "I  did  the  usual 
things,"  he  said;  "drained  a  swamp,  like  Faust; 
built  a  sanitary  tenement,  unlovely  and  unloved; 
founded  a  library,  readable  but  unread." 

His  library  contained,  he  told  me,  some  three 
thousand  "bound  prittle-prattles  intended  to 
amuse"  and  some  two  thousand  ''bound  fiddle- 
faddles  designed  to  instruct."  To  these  he  added 
fifty  duplicate  editions  of  Spinoza's  Ethics  and 
the  Bhagavad  Gita! 

"There  is  a  suggestive  effect  in  repetition,"  he 
35 


GLAMOURIE 

explained.  "I  had  trouble  with  Brother  Ernest 
about  my  Spinoza.  Atheistic! — that  was  his 
word ;  and  unfit  reading  for  his  flock.  My  brother, 
by  the  way,  has  the  living  there.  But  I  made  the 
'Ethics'  a  sine  qua  non  and  subtly  begged  him  to 
warn  his  lambs  against  it.  Alas!  he  guarded  a 
wise  silence,  and  my  fifty  noble  Baruches  remain 
unthumbed;  so  do  my  fifty  inspiring  Gitas!" 

That  experiment  ended,  he  fled  to  Paris. 
"Frontiers!"  he  explained.  "I  was  netted  by 
them.  Frontiers  between  counties,  castes,  cults 
and  parties. — Even  that  sacred  Channel ! — Never, 
if  you  want  to  grow,  make  a  fetish  of  any  fron- 
tier!" 

This  is  all  that  I  gathered  at  that  time  of  Sir 
Michael's  past.  Few  men,  indeed,  were  less  retro- 
spective. "I  am  eternally  alive/'  he  told  me  once ; 
"I  touch  neither  yesterday  nor  to-morrow." 

One  day  (to  resume  my  story),  after  many 
meetings  had  ripened  our  acquaintanceship  into 
sincere  friendship,  he  said,  "I  wish  you  would 
come  to  see  me.  We  have  let  the  Divine  Chance 
have  its  way.  It  has  shaken  us  like  dice  in  its 
box,  and  we  have  always  fallen  double  six. 
Enough  of  that.  Enough  of  jacquet.  The  rest 
is  friendship!  We  understand  each  other.  You 
think  me  rather  mad — Oh,  you  need  not  protest — 
36 


THE  HALL  OF  THE  INNOCENTS 

rather  mad;  and  I  think  you  rather  prettily 
sane " 

"Thank  you,"  I  said. 

" — rather  prettily  sane.  Your  sanity,  Mr. 
Dwight,  is  (for  the  moment)  cased  in  a  crab- 
like  shell  of  formulae." 

"Must  I  be  boiled?"  I  inquired  anxiously. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "you'll  shed  that  shell! 
But  at  present  you  are  sane  enough  to  be  sent  to 
Westminster  Hall,  the  House  of  Congress,  or  the 
Palais  Bourbon." 

"My  word !"  I  cried  in  dismay. 

"But  cheer  up!"  he  added  consolingly.  "You 
could  fill  no  pulpit:  c'est  deja  quelque  chose!" 

"True,"  I  admitted,  somewhat  reassured. 

"And,"  he  went  on,  "I  find  your  sanity  stimu- 
lating. It  is  smug  perhaps  but  not  blatant" — Sir 
Michael  was  evidently  thinking  aloud — "and  it 
may  help  me.  Mr.  Dwight" — here  he  became 
V  very  earnest — "I  have  meditated  myself  and  ex- 
~at  perimented  myself  into  the  centre  of  a  geometric 
diagram  of  lucid  thought.  I  see  light  everywhere ! 
dear  God,  man ! — light !  away  into  the  Infinitudes. 
And  yet " 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  asked;  for  he  paused, 
hesitating. 

"Why,  I  can't  stir  hand,  foot  or  wing,"  he  an- 
37 


GLAMOURIE 

svvered.    "Some  day  I  may  explain  it  all  to  you ; 
but  meanwhile " 

"Meanwhile,"  I  hazarded,  laughing,  "I  suggest 
rubbing  out  the  diagram." 

"Mr.  Dwight,"  he  said  solemnly,  "it  is  inefface- 
able. You  shall  see " 

And  Sir  Michael  rapped  on  the  table  (we  were 
then  in  the  Hall  of  the  Innocents)  and  ordered 
"de  quoi  ecrire." 

When  these  were  brought,  he  wrote  the  letters 
C,  L  and  M  at  the  points  of  an  imaginary  tri- 
angle, enclosed  each  letter  in  a  small  circle  and 
connected  these  by  three  arrows,  arrows  that  gave 
a  semblance  of  motion  to  the  circles,  so  that  C 
seemed  to  move  toward  L,  L  toward  M  and  M 
toward  C.  I  may  say,  parenthetically,  that  I 
could  make  nothing  of  it  until  the  great  morning 
on  the  Lanterne  de  Diogene. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Sir  Michael,  as  he  drew 
the  last  arrow.  "I  live  in  that  triangle,  Mr 
Dwight !  The  C  is  a  roulette  wheel,  or  a  whirl- 
ing nebula,  or  something  of  the  kind" — illustrat- 
ing with  a  circular  gesture — "and  the  L  is  a  heart, 
throbbing,  throbbing" — he  touched  his  own — "or 
something  of  that  kind." 

"And  the  M?"  I  asked. 

"The  M  is  a  viewless  mirage." 
38 


THE  HALL  OF  THE  INNOCENTS 

"Or  something  of  that  kind,"  I  suggested. 

"Justement!"  he  assented,  smiling.  "Well,  that 
is  where  I  live !" 

"With  a  whirl,  a  throb  and  a  mirage,  Sir  Mi- 
chael?" 

"Justement!"  he  repeated.  "However,  you  shall 
know  more  of  this — that  is,  unless  your  pretty 
sanity  grows  on  you — in  the  future.  And  mean- 
while keep  this  diagram  safe.  You  will  treasure 
it  some  day,  if " 

Sir  Michael  stopped  short,  thought  an  instant 
and  then  added  abruptly : 

"Come  and  lunch  with  me  to-morrow  at  half- 
past  twelve." 

"In  the  triangle?"  I  queried. 

"No,"  he  answered,  laughing,  "at  this  address." 

And  he  handed  me  his  card  and  left  me. 

"Decidedly,"  I  thought,  "if  ever  a  small  gentle- 
man was  harmlessly  mad,  it  is  my  very  dear 
friend,  Sir  Michael  Burke." 


IV 

GOLDEN    BURKE 

"You  must  make  your  readers  envisage  Me!" 
So  said  Sir  Michael. 

Accordingly,  I  shall  now  record  my  first  visit 
to  his  room  on  the  Quai  Voltaire.  It  may,  faith- 
fully told,  assist  the  reader  to  that  envisagement. 

I  shall  not,  however,  point  out  too  precisely 
Sir  Michael's  lodgings.  It  would  trouble  some 
worthy  people  should  their  house  become  a  shrine 
to  pilgrims.  Moreover,  Sir  Michael  himself  hated 
relic-worship. 

"Fetishes  all,"  he  said,  "shreds  of  the  chrysalis ! 
Genius  isn't  a  microbe  that  spawns  infectious  on 
the  pen  of  Hugo,  on  the  palette  of  Poussin.  If 
a  thing  is  good,  beautiful — save  it,  to  all  eternity ! 
If  not — oblivion!" 

So  I  shall  say  that  he  lived  "de  Vautre  cote  de 
I'eau,"  that  is,  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  on 
the  Quai  Voltaire. 

There,  at  the  address  he  had  given  me,  I  found 
40 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

a  small  hotel.  He  was  awaiting  me  near  the 
door. 

"I  did  not  want  you  to  mount  to  my  room  till 
after  dejeuner"  he  explained.  "My  domain  is  so 
wide  in  space,  so  deep  in  time,  so  fulfilled  with 
beauty,  that  it  would  have  been  a  malhonnetete  to 
have  glanced  at  it,  exclaimed  'How  nice!'  and 
scampered  off  to  the  feeding  trough." 

"I  should  not  have  said  'How  nice,'  "  I  ob- 
jected, as  we  sat  down  at  table. 

"No,"  he  conceded;  "you  would  have  sifted 
your  adjectives  (not  your  strong  part  of  speech, 
by  the  way)  and  selected  something  noble." 

"Tact!"  he  exclaimed  after  a  pause.  "Tact 
with  things ! — tender,  wistful,  beckoning,  whisper- 
ing things  that  we  daily  chill  and  kill  by  our  lack 
of  love."  He  touched  caressingly  a  bunch  of  red 
heather  on  the  table. 

"  'Full  many  a  flower,'  "  I  quoted. 

"Ah,  how  Grey  missed  his  chance!  It  is  not 
the  desert  flower  that  blushes  unseen  that  should 
be  lamented.  No ! — but  rather  the  obvious  flower 
that  blushes  neglected — the  sweet  plaything  of  the 
Divine  Chance  lost  to  the  Divine  Memory !" 

I  was  about  to  ask  for  an  explanation,  when  a 
red-coated  gargon  approached  our  table  and  Sir 
Michael  came  down  to  earth. 

4  41 


GLAMOURIE 

"Ah,  Henri,"  said  he,  "voyons!  Nous  allons 
manger — what  an  infernal  bore! — des  oeufs  chipo- 
lata — no  notion  what  they  are — et  ensuite,  veau 
braise — that's  the  fatted  calf,  D wight ! — et  ensuite, 
des  haricots  verts — good  old  friends — du  fromage, 
des  fruits.  You  have  no  idea  how  it  bothers  me 
to  order  food.  In  future,  guest  or  host,  you  shall 
do  it." 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  evidently  continuing  his 
previous  train  of  thought;  "we  should  heed  the 
proverb  '// ne  faut  pas  mepriser  les  petites  chases' 
don't  despise  little  things." 

"That  doesn't  apply  to  the  study  of  the  menu?" 
I  hinted. 

"Ah,  you  almost  tripped  me  there,"  he  laughed, 
"but  food  is  not  petite  chose;  it  is  a  titanic,  monu- 
mental horror.  No ;  neither  does  the  proverb  ap- 
ply,  for  me,  to  its  vulgar  origin.  You  know  the 
*  legend?" 

I  did  not. 

"Why,  the  story  is  that  Jesus  was  walking 
with  the  twelve.  He  saw  a  broken  horseshoe  ly- 
ing in  the  road  and  told  Peter " 

"Peter  was  always  fair  game." 

"Yes;  told  Peter  to  preserve  it.  Peter  scorned 
it,  le  meprisa,  and  kicked  it  out  of  his  way.  Jesus 
secretly  picked  it  up,  sold  it  for  three  sous  and 
42 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

bought  therewith  cherries.  The  walk  continued; 
the  sun  was  hot;  Peter  was  thirsty  and  lagged, 
Peter-like,  behind. 

"Then  Jesus  began  to  drop  cherries  in  the  dust 
of  the  road;  and  the  unsuspecting  Peter  picked 
them  up  and  ate  them  one  by  one.  The  game 
lasted  till  the  hundredth  and  last  cherry  had  been 
gathered,  when  Jesus  said,  Teter,  hadst  thou 
stooped  once  for  the  horseshoe,  thou  needst  not 
have  stooped  five  score  times  for  the  cherries.  // 
ne  faut  famais  mepriser  les  petites  chases'  The 
legend  is  in  Quitard." 

"I  like  your  application  better,"  I  said. 

"And  you  will  like  it  better  still,"  remarked 
Sir  Michael,  "as  it  flowers  in  your  mind.  But 
here  are  the  oenfs  chipolata — Mangeons!" 

"Have  you  eaten,"  he  inquired,  as  he  helped  me 
to  the  eggs,  "the  omelette  of  Poulard  aim  at 
Mont  St.  Michel — Not?  Ah,  that  is  the  apothe- 
osis of  the  egg !  There  is  a  glow  of  red  embers — 
a  flap  of  flames — a  buttery  sizzling — a  flashing 
metal  thing  circling  in  cadenced  gyrations;  a 
magic  gesture — an  Omelette!  Dwight,"  he  re- 
peated solemnly,  "it  is  the  apotheosis  of  the  egg !" 

"And  how  was  the  egg  affected  by  its  deifica- 
tion?" I  asked.  "Was  the  omelette  ambrosial?" 

"Curious !"  he  answered,  puzzled ;  "but  I  can't 

43 


GLAMOURIE 

remember  that  I  ate  an  omelette.    I  do  remember 
the  tide,  though." 

"And  did  it  charge  in,  as  the  guide-book  says, 
like  a  galloping  horse?" 

"No;  but  it  was  solemn  and  tremendous.  It 
began  with  an  infinity  of  tawny,  sterile  sand;  it 
ended  with  a  waste  of  shining,  virgin  sea.  And 
between  the  beginning  and  the  end  I  saw  the 
march  of  an  army,  will-controlled,  Napoleonic; 
the  spread  of  a  pestilence,  chance-sown,  devastat- 
XA  ing;  the  light  of  a  religion,  glowing,  growing, 
till  it  overflowed  all  life  with  its  divine  glamour. 
That  was  the  tide." 

"Sir  Michael,"  I  said  hesitatingly,  "you  do  not 
speak — well,  precisely  like  an  English  country 
gentleman ;  nor  do  you  use  the  catchwords  of  Ox- 
ford. How  is  it  that  you " 

He  touched  his  heart,  his  brow,  his  lips. 

"I  am  an  Irishman,"  he  answered,  smiling;  "I 
am  mad;  and  my  name  is  Burke!" 

We  finished  our  luncheon,  including  the  fatted 
calf,  almost  silently  after  this.  The  processes  of 
eating  visibly  wearied  Sir  Michael. 

"There !"  he  said,  rising ;  "that  is  over.  I  can't 
chew  and  think  together.  Query:  Is  it  the  cud 
that  makes  the  cow  such  an  imbecile?" 

"Ruminant,"  I  hinted,  "whence  rumination." 
44 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

"No  doubt,"  he  assented ;  "but  I  can't  literally 
and  figuratively  ruminate." 

Pondering  this  strange  fact  in  natural  history 
we  mounted  to  his  room  on  the  second  floor. 

"The  inside  first,"  said  he,  opening  the  door; 
"I  forbid  you  to  look  out  of  the  window !  First 
the  kernel,  then  the  shell;  first  the  gnaw  in  the 
cocoon,  then  wings  in  the  sunlight!  Gnaw  the 
books  first,  Dwight,  while  I  go  downstairs  to 
order  coffee.  I  forgot  it." 

"Ring,"  I  suggested. 

"No;  I  forgot  it,"  he  answered  emphatically; 
"and  I  always  whip  forgetfulness.  Memory" — 
he  paused  and  faced  me  on  the  threshold — "is  the 
ark  of  Noah  that  floats  eternally  on  the  waters  of 
oblivion." 

Then  he  left  me  and  I  "gnawed  the  books." 

They  were  everywhere,  in  wall-shelves,  revolv- 
ing cases,  racks,  and  scattered  on  his  great  table. 
It  was  a  democracy  of  literature  where  the  broken- 
backed  waif  of  the  stalls  rubbed  brotherly  against 
the  limited  edition  in  morocco. 

Nor,  in  this  democracy,  did  the  class  badge  of 
dress  exist;  for  I  opened  several  superb  covers 
only  to  find  therein  ancient  pages,  foxed,  dog- 
eared and  thumbed,  while  others,  excellent  edi- 
tions, were  left  in  their  paper  boards.  I  was 
45 


GLAMOURIE 

handling  one  of  these  when  Sir  Michael  re- 
turned. 

"I  protest,"  I  said  solemnly,  "in  the  name  of 
New  England,  against  your  treatment  of  Jona- 
than Edwards.  Here  is  his  'Freedom  of  the  Will,' 
naked  and  ashamed." 

"It  belonged  to  John  Stuart  Mill,"  he  explained, 
"and  the  proof  is  on  that  board  cover.  Hence 
his  undress.  And  what,  Dwight,  is  your  opinion 
on  the  freedom  of  the  will  ?" 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"Wrong!"  he  exclaimed,  "  fne  pas  choisir,  c'est 
encore  choisir'!  Every  man  must  face  that  ques- 
tion. And  the  answer,  you  will  find  it  in  Payot's 
great  book,  is  this  (mark  it  well!)  :  the  will  is 
not  free,  but  it  can  attain  liberty!  Here  is  Payot," 
he  concluded,  handing  me  the  book ;  "take  it  and 
read  it.  Any  other  comments?" 

"Yes;  here  is  a  fat,  pursy  volume  where  you 
have  lavished  full  morocco  on  three  little  books 
of  five  sous  each." 

"De  Maistre!"  He  said,  "La  Rochefoucauld! 
Pascal! — I  touched  life  first,  as  a  boy,  in  those 
three  five  sous  books.  Life ! — it  quivers  in  them, 
Dwight." 

Content  with  this  explanation  I  wandered 
among  his  pictures.  Except  for  one  water  colour, 
46 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

a  landscape,  they  were  all  prints,  engravings  and 
maps  of  historic  Paris. 

"Except  in  Paris,"  he  said,  when  I  remarked 
on  this,  "walls  should  be  hung  with  architecture, 
landscape  and  marines.  No  soul  should  allow 
itself  to  become  cit,  yokel  or  longshoreman! — it 
should  vibrate! — vibrate  between  the  cold  geom- 
etry of  the  cities,  the  placid  motherhood  of  the 
fields,  the  restless  virginity  of  the  sea." 

"Why  not  in  Paris?"  I  asked. 

"Because  she  is  Paris!"  he  cried.  "No  soul 
gets  caged  in  Paris;  it  feels  the  far  sea  wash 
her  quais,  the  country  flow  green  against  her 
walls.  All  history  is  buried  below  her;  all 
space  beckons  above  her.  Paris  spells  freedom, 
Dwight." 

"You  do  not  mention  portraits,  Sir  Michael." 

"Because  there  are  none !  Who  has  caught  that 
efflorescence  called  the  soul?" 

"Rembrandt,"  I  answered. 

"Wrinkles  and  Chiaroscuro!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Rembrandt  painted  an  untubbed  generation, 
bleared  with  crude  vices.  No;  there  is  but  one 
portrait  painter." 

"And  who  is  that?" 

"A  goddess,"  replied  Sir  Michael,  "yclept 
Mnemosyne.  The  faces  of  friends  waver  and 
47 


GLAMOURIE 

glimmer  on  her  canvas  and  the  soul  shines  out. 
Yet — O  the  blindness  of  art! — she  has  but  one 
imitator,  Eugene  Carriere.  He  has  almost  painted 
memory " 

"But  d  propos  of  portraits ,"  he  added, 

opened  a  draw  full  of  photographs  and  drew 
forth  a  thin  album  richly  bound. 

"Take  that,"  he  said;  "sit  in  that  long  Amer- 
ican chair ;  put  up  your  American  feet ;  and  study 
these  photographs." 

I  obeyed,  even  unto  my  American  feet. 

I  opened  the  album 

Sir  Michael  opened  a  book 

Be  it  understood  that  the  talk  that  followed 
was  a  thing  of  ellipses,  long  pauses,  hesitations 
and  murmurings. 

I  saw  that  Sir  Michael,  however  carelessly  he 
had  introduced  the  subject,  had  planned  the  little 
coup  in  advance.  So,  obeying  his  whim,  I  treated 
it  with  ceremonial  gravity.  But  this  pose  soon 
passed  as  with  my  eyes  on  the  portraits  and  Sir 
Michael's  words  in  my  ears,  I  felt  that  he  was 
consciously  adding  a  new  colour,  touch  by  touch, 
to  the  canvas  of  my  life. 

I  opened  the  album — a  dimpled  baby  girl;  a 
little  hoyden  of  seven  or  eight;  two  wistful 
maidens  in  their  teens;  two  slender  girls  in  their 
48 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

early  twenties.  But  the  same  face  always,  allow- 
ing for  the  modelling  of  time. 

The  Celt  was  in  that  face.  Not  the  merry  Celt 
that  flames  into  fierce  passion,  but  the  dreaming 
Celt  that  melts  into  self-sacrifice. 

Beauty? — let  me  try  to  explain,  even  though  I 
confuse  first  sight  with  later  knowledge.  A  mu- 
sician creates  a  melody;  it  comes  sweetly  to  the 
ear,  a  thing  concrete  and  claspable.  That,  no 
doubt,  is  beauty.  He  creates  a  second  melody  so 
married  to  the  first  by  harmony  and  dissonance, 
by  flow  of  movement  and  throb  of  time,  that  there 
is  born  a  new  thing,  a  sort  of  over-beauty,  a  joy 
altogether  abstract  and  unseizable.  So  there  came 
from  the  face  that  looked  at  me  out  of  the  photo- 
graphs an  interplay  of  ghost  and  flesh  that  thrilled 
something  gracious  and  holy  into  my  being. 

So  strange  and  sweet,  indeed,  was  this  feeling 
that  I  did  not  care  to  speak  at  first;  but  at  last 
curiosity  awoke  and  I  turned  to  my  friend. 

"Kinswoman,  Sir  Michael?" 

"Second  cousin." 

A  pause 

"Hair,  please?" 

"Red-gold." 

Another  pause,  while  I  added,  in  imagination, 
this  colour  to  the  pictures 

49 


GLAMOURIE 

"Eyes,  please?" 

For  answer  Sir  Michael  pointed  silently  to  a 
slab  of  lapis  lazuli,  a  paper  weight,  that  lay  on 
his  table. 

"But  there  are  many  blues  in  that  stone,"  I 
objected. 

Sir  Michael  simply  shrugged  his  shoulders  pro- 
vokingly. 

"The  soul,"  he  murmured — "the  soul! — it  is 
asleep  in  the  lapis — while  behind  her  eyes " 

"It  is  awake,  Sir  Michael  ?"  I  whispered. 

"It  dreams,  Dwight" — how  the  woodnote  in 
his  voice  mellowed  and  deepened — "ah,  man! 
what  dreams." 

And  he  waved  two  explanatory  hands  vaguely 
above  his  head. 

"And  her  name,  Sir  Michael?" 

"Golden  Burke." 

"Perfect!"  I  said  softly. 

"Perfect,"  he  assented.  "It  happened  thus. 
She  was  named  Clorinda  Golden  after  some  an- 
cestress. The  'Clorinda'  became  atrophied  for 
want  of  use  and  dropped  off,  leaving  the  Golden. 
It  matches  her  colour-scheme." 

"Golden  Burke,"  I  repeated. 

Sir  Michael  nodded,  smiling,  although  I  saw 
a  note  of  trouble  in  his  face;  and  then,  without 

5° 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

further  questioning,  he  added  with  many  hesita- 
tions a  few  details. 

"She  is  five  and  twenty — alone  in  the  world — 
almost  kinless,  save  for  brother  Ernest  and  me — 
and  Miss  Warboy,  her  friend — a  maiden  lady 
d'un  certain  age — who  loves  Golden  and  old  laces 
— Golden  lives  in  Ipswich — paints  in  water  col- 
our— and  rather  well — that  is  hers" — he  pointed 
at  the  landscape  on  the  wall — "that  parched,  yel- 
low Suffolk,  the  Suffolk  of  Constable." 

"She  is  very  pitiful,  D wight,  very  helpful  to 
the  poor.  A  heathen,  of  course " 

"Of  course,"  I  assented  cheerfully. 

"Of  course!  and  her  paganism  has  quickened 
her  sympathies." 

"It  does,  with  spacious  souls,"  said  I. 

"She  sings  a  bit,"  he  went  on,  smiling  to  him- 
self, as  if  with  a  pleasant  memory,  "in  a  wild,  un- 
tutored way " 

"A  plague  on  tutors !"  I  muttered. 

"Sings,  Dwight,  to  the  tinkle  of  a  little  Irish 
harp — a  blackbird  voice,  full  of  forest  echoes." 

And  he  pointed,  as  if  illustrating,  at  her  land- 
scape on  the  wall. 

"Ah,  it  is  placid  and  cloistered,  that  parched 
Suffolk — and  there  she  lives — and  waits " 

Then,  his  voice  warming, — "But  her  soul  is 

51 


GLAMOURIE 

questing— questing ! — Wings!  Dwight,  Wings! — 
The  Beyond! — the  au  dela!" 

And  there  followed  a  long  silence,  broken  at 
last  by  Sir  Michael. 

"Such  womanhood,"  he  said,  the  clear  voice 
—vibrating,  "is  not  Sex ! — It  is  Mirage ! — It  is  the 
Chimere  £ternelle!" 

At  this  I  yielded ! — I  might  have  fluttered  from 

the  meshes  of  her  hair  (there  is  entanglement  in 

-v^red-gold  hair)  ;  I  might  have  broken  the  spell  of 

"tier  eyes   (there  is  glamourie  in  blue  eyes) ;  I 

might  have  forgotten  the  "little  Irish  harp"  (what 

a  subtle  touch  that  was!)  but — the  Chimere  £ter- 

nelle! 

"Sir  Michael,"  I  said,  "I  capitulate." 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed,  but  there  was  a  ring 
of  pain  in  his  voice  that  I  did  not  then  understand, 
"what  else  had  you  to  do?  Indeed" — and  he 
sighed  sorrowfully — "I  foretold  your  destiny  long 
since  in  the  pages  of  my  journal.  Here !  you  will 
be  interested." 

He  opened  a  large  book  bound  in  red  morocco. 

"April  3,"  he  read,  "met  Dwight,  John,  New 
England.  Scotch  gambit." 

"My  favourite  opening." 

"April  8,"  he  continued,  "met  Dwight  (sec- 
ond)  " 

5* 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

"What  does  'second'  mean,  Sir  Michael?" 

"It  means  'second  meeting.'  I  am  very  method- 
ical for  a  Celt.  Met  D wight  (second).  He  listens 
well." 

I  nodded;  I  do  listen  well.    I  need  to! 

"April  15.  Met  Dwight  (third) — An  honest 
mastiff." 

"Honest  mastiff!"  I  exclaimed.    "Is  that  me?" 

"A  first  impression,  Dwight.  I  correct  it  thus 
(I  skip  many  meetings)  later  on:  May  10.  Met 
Dwight  (twelfth) — Honest  mastiff  in  motley. 
You  must  have  been  exhibiting  some  unusually 
jocular  phase  of  your  character." 

"Motley's  the  only  wear,"  I  quoted. 

"And  here  again,"  he  went  on.  "Aug.  6.  Met 
Dwight  (thirty-eighth) — Honest  mastiff  baying 
the  moon." 

I  frowned  disapprovingly. 

"Baying  the  moon,"  he  repeated  firmly.  "And 
here  I  read:  Met  Dwight  (thirty-nine) — Honest 
mastiff  is  love-hungry.  And  here:  Met  Dwight 
(forty) — Honest  mastiff  questing  chimere?" 

"Behold,  O  Dwight,"  he  added  theatrically,  tap- 
ping the  page  he  had  read,  "the  words  of  the 
prophet !" 

At  this  moment  a  small  clock  on  his  mantel- 
piece gave  three  gentle,  silver  strokes.  He  en- 
53 


GLAMOURIE 

joined  silence  with  a  warning  finger  and  pointed 
at  a  curtained  alcove  that  contained  his  bed. 

The  curtains  parted  a  little  and  there  appeared 
the  largest  brindled  cat  I  had  ever  seen. 

"Prism,"'  said  Sir  Michael,  "this  is  my  friend 
Mr.  Dwight.  Greet  him  with  the  velvet  paw." 

After  I  had  shaken  the  great  beast's  proffered 
paw  with  becoming  ceremony  it  went  to  the  little 
balcony  of  one  of  the  windows}  where  it  sat 
primly,  looking  down  on  the  quai. 

"What  a  precise,  hands-in-the-lap  sort  of  atti- 
tude," said  I  admiringly. 

"Prism  is  formalism  cat-ified,"  he  answered; 
"he  is  the  felinisation  of  the  law  of  the  Medes  and 
the  Persians.  Did  you  note  that  slow,  significant 
look  at  me?  That  meant  C'cst  I'heure  de  de- 
jeuner." 

"Prism  lives  by  hours,"  he  continued,  as  he 
prepared  the  cat's  luncheon.  "Now  I  hate  a  clock 
— what  has  the  eternal  soul  to  do  with  silly  tick- 
ings! But  Prism  requires  one,  and  I  keep  it 
wound  and  set  for  him.  I  fancy  he  has  de- 
ified it." 

"Whence  his  name,  Sir  Michael?" 

"Golden  gave  him  his  name,  derived  of  course 
from  the  immortal  'prunes  and  prisms.'  I  love 
him.  He  stimulates  me.  I  argue  with  him  for 

54 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

hours,  painting  the  freedom  of  the  back  fence,  the 
howling  cult  of  the  moon.  He  listens,  the  sleek, 
egoistic  Pharisee,  and  continues  to  worship  his 
timepiece." 

"So  he  was  given  his  name " 

"By  Golden.  Yes;  and  that  brings  me  back 
to  what  I  was  about  to  say  when  Prism  inter- 
rupted— Dwight,  I  want  you  and  Golden  to 
meet." 

"It  would  give  me  the  utmost  pleasure  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  Miss  Burke,"  I  said  for- 
mally. 

"Said  precisely  like  Prism!"  commented  Sir 
Michael. 

"It  was  sincere,"  I  protested. 

"No  doubt.  You  will  be  glad  to  know,  then, 
that  even  yesterday,  continuing  my  prophetic  vein, 
I  wrote  this  letter  of  introduction" — he  took  it 
from  the  table  and  waved  it  before  me — "a  noble 
one!" 

"Thank  you,"  I  said;  "when  I  go  to  England 
next  year " 

"Next  year? — Now!"  shouted  Sir  Michael. 
"Your  acquaintanceship — bah,  what  a  word ! — be- 
gins now!" 

Probably  I  looked  bewildered,  for  he  explained 
dryly, 

55 


GLAMOURIE 

"You  will  write  to  her ;  she  will  write  to  you." 

"I  shall  write  to  her;  she  will  write  to  me. 
Rather  unconventional  that,  Sir  Michael." 

"O  Prism,  Prism,"  said  he,  quoting  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  "thou  little  knowest  the  mischief  thou 
has  wrought!" 

"Con-ven-tion,"  he  proceeded,  separating  his 
syllables  like  a  schoolboy,  "con-ven-tion  is  the  tail 
of  the  ape.  It  is  a  pre-hen-sile  ac-ces-so-ry.  It  is 
use-ful  when  the  ape  is  dan-gling  head  down- 
wards in  the  so-cial  tree.  It  is  sil-ly  when  the  ape 
is  walk-ing  head  up- wards  in  the  fields;  and  the 
tail  snakes  a-long  af-ter  him." 

"What,"  he  added,  resuming  his  usual  man- 
ner, "have  we  three,  Golden  and  you  and  I,  to  do 
with  conventions?" 

"Nothing  whatever,"  I  assented. 

"Bon! — Then  here  is  the  letter,  which  I  shall 
post  to-day.  Read  it — you  had  better  know  what 
you  have  to  live  up  to.  Or  stay ! — I'll  read  it  to 
you.  You  may  need,  like  Hamlet,  to  be  edified 
by  the  margent." 

"Proceed,"  I  remarked.  "I  suppose  you  have 
honest-mastiffed  me  so  that  no  girl  will  look  at 
me." 

"You  shall  hear,"  he  answered  and  began  to 
read. 

56 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

"Dear  Golden:  I  want  you  and  John  Dwight 
to  talk  together,  pen  in  hand." 

"Is  that  mandatory  or  precatory?"  I  inquired. 

"Neither ;  it  is  an  aspiration.  He  is  my  Friend. 
The  'friend'  has  a  big  F,"  he  explained. 

"Thank  you." 

"He  is  an  escaped  colonial." 

"What  is  that?"  I  asked  suspiciously. 

"Something  rather  romantic,  Dwight.  Ah,  you 
don't  know  your  Island-England.  You  haven't 
heard  the  suave  condescension  in  her  voice  when 
she  speaks  of  a  colonial,  of  the  man  that  with  dog- 
like,  unrequited  love,  calls  England  'Home.'  Noth- 
ing romantic  about  him,  Dwight,  outside  the 
verses  of  Kipling,  that  greater  Burns,  whom 
Island-England  will  not  understand — A  colonial! 
A  colonial  judge!  A  colonial  bishop! — why,  it  is 
better  to  be  an  Irishman — better" — he  raised  a 
tiny  clenched  hand  and  the  blood  mounted  to  his 
face — "better  to  be  an  Irishman,  one  who  owes 
no  gratitude  for  the  past,  who  has  no  illusions 
for  the  future!" 

He  paused  an  instant,  regained  his  composure 
and  continued,  smiling. 

"But  an  escaped  colonial,  c'est  autre  chose! 
You  wriggled  loose  in  '76.  You  flapped  your 
flag.  You  flaunted  your  Declaration.  You  fought 

57 


GLAMOURIE 

doggedly;  you  became  a  People.  You  worked 
madly;  you  wrought  a  Nation.  You  grasp  mas- 
terfully; you  loom  an  Empire — tant  pis  pour  la 
liberte " 

"Tant  pis!" 

" — and,  because  you  are  beating  Island-Eng- 
land at  her  own  greedy  game,  you  are  a  thing  of 
romance,  a  thing  to  imitate.  Dwight" — this  very 
impressively,  as  a  climax — "there  is  a  class  of 
hustling  Englishmen  in  London  to-day  that  has 
taken  to  talking  through  its  nose,  as  a  means  of 
getting  on  in  the  world !" 

"Are  you  serious,  Sir  Michael?" 

"I  am  always  serious — But  to  continue  the  let- 
ter. He  is  an  honest  mastiff." 

"There!"  I  remonstrated,  "I  knew  you  would 
do  that.  The  phrase  is  fatal ! — no  girl  will  adopt 
an  old  Mother  Hubbard  attitude  toward  a  man." 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  he;  "I  have  not  finished. 
He  is  an  honest  mastiff,  one  of  that  rare  breed 
that  will  bay  you  the  moon  some  wild  midnight 
in  a  thundering  Fifth  Symphony.  How  is  that?" 

"Hyperbolic,"  I  answered,  greatly  pleased. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  insisted;  "you  will  bay  like  a 
behemoth  if,  as  Beethoven  said,  destiny  knocks 
on  your  kennel  roof.    I  continue  the  letter.      He, 
too,  is  a  dweller  on  the  heath." 
58 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

"Interpret,  please." 

"A  heathen,  Dwight,  philologically,  is  one  that 
has  taken  to  the  heather." 

"I  see." 

"He,  too,  broke  through  the  thickets  of  old 
formula.  He,  too,  is  marked  by  the  thorns.  So 
much  for  your  inner  man;  I  now  proceed  to  de- 
scribe your  husk." 

"Great  Scott!"  I  ejaculated  in  dismay. 

"It  is  most  essential.  I  have  painted  Golden 
for  you  ?" 

"You  have." 

"Bon!  I  shall  paint  you  for  Golden.  He  is 
long  and  lank  and  brown." 

"Is  that  compliment  in  quotation  marks?" 

"No ;  Coleridge  and  I  are  on  good  terms.  His 
eyes  are  the  colour  of  the  nuts  that  fall  from  the 
marronniers  on  the  Champs-Ely  sees.  That  phrase, 
Dwight,  is  literature! — it  gives  a  certain  subtle 
Parisian  touch  to  the  picture." 

"His  voice  is  a  cheerful  tenor,  gently  exotic." 

"Heavens,  Sir  Michael!  do  I  talk  through  my 
nose?" 

"Melodiously,  Dwight,  most  melodiously! 
Why  not?  You  have  the  old  accent  of  old  Suf- 
folk. Better  that,  my  archaic  friend,  than  the 
Hanoverian  patois  of  the  Island  smart-set,  the 
59 


GLAMOURIE 

heritage  from  the  broken  English  of  their  Ger- 
man kings." 

" — gently  exotic,"  he  repeated,  resuming  his 
reading,  "and  rather  Elizabethan. 

"That  is  all,  except  your  address  and  my  salu- 
tations." 

"A  most  phenomenal  and  enigmatic  epistle  that, 
Sir  Michael." 

"It  goes  to  a  most  phenomenal  and  sibylline 

girl,  Jack By  the  way,  I  am,  if  you  don't 

mind,  going  to  call  you  Jack  at  times.  And  you 
will  call  me  Michael." 

"Jack,  by  all  means,"  I  said;  "but  I  shall  not 
address  you  as  Michael." 

"And  why  not,  pray?" 

"Sir,"  I  answered  solemnly,  "I  am  a  free-born 
citizen  of  the  United  States.  A  title  rolls  sweetly 
on  my  democratic  tongue.  I  shall  call  you  Sir 
Michael  till  the  cows  come  home!" 

He  laughed  at  the  bucolic  locution,  remarking, 
"Elizabethan." 

"But,"  I  added,  holding  out  my  hand,  "we  will 
understand  that  the  title,  as  between  us,  shall  be 
a  mere  badge  of  respect,  friendship  and " 

"And  fellow  heathendom,"  he  completed,  rising 
from  his  chair  and  taking  my  hand. 

He  did  not  release  my  hand  at  once,  but  held 
60 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

it  fast,  looking  up  with  curiously  pathetic  eyes 
into  my  face.  His  look  puzzled  me. 

Then  he  began  to  pace  the  floor,  to  and  fro, 
to  and  fro,  muttering  to  himself  and  now  and 
again  making  some  wild  gesture. 

Instinct  bade  me  be  silent;  and  that  my  atten- 
tion might  seem  to  be  occupied  I  took  up  from 
the  table  the  photographs  of  Golden  Burke  and 
began  to  study  them  anew. 

Sir  Michael  saw  my  action  and  rushed  toward 
me.  Very  gently,  very  reverently  he  took  the  al- 
bum from  my  hands  and  walked  slowly  with  it 
across  the  room.  Suddenly  he  groaned,  fell  on 
his  knees  before  a  chair  and  hid  his  face  and  the 
pictures  within  his  arms. 

Then  I  understood.  Ah !  I  was  a  fool,  a  selfish 
fool,  not  to  have  understood  before. 

Sir  Michael's  fragile  body  was  shaken  by  great, 
silent  sobbings. 

I  laid  a  friendly  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Forgive  me,  dear  friend,"  I  whispered,  "for 
not  understanding  sooner.  You  played  your  part 
so  well  that  I  could  not  guess." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  tossed  his  hair  back  from 
his  eyes. 

"I  cannot  do  it,"  he  said  falteringly ;  "I  thought 
I  could — it  is  such  an  old  dream  now,  such  an 
61 


GLAMOURIE 

old,  old  dream — all  through  youth,  the  pinched 
travesty  of  youth  that  was  mine — all  through 
manhood,  if  this  warped  interrogation-point  can 
be  called  a  man — Oxford,  Boston,  Ceylon,  India, 
Turkey,  Suffolk,  Paris,  it  is  always  the  same — it 
is  always  Golden,  Golden,  Golden !"  He  paused, 
then  added  pathetically,  "I  love  her,  Jack." 

"And  you  have  never  spoken?" 

"And  I  have  never  spoken!  During  all  these 
years  I  have  played  to  her  the  role  of  Cyrano, 
d'etre  le  vieil  ami  qui  vient  pour  etre  drole.  Never, 
by  a  word,  a  gesture,  a  single  look  have  I  given 
her  a  hint  of  my  madness.  For  it  is  madness, 
Jack ! — look  at  me " 

"But,  Sir  Michael,"  I  said,  "you  have  a  face  of 
rare  beauty  and  a  voice  that " 

He  raised  a  silencing  hand. 

"Look  at  me!"  he  cried.  "No;  I  have  no  illu- 
sions. Yet,  poor  fool  that  I  am !  I  cannot  surren- 
der the  old  dream.  I  thought  I  could.  I  thought 
that  I  could  bring  you  and  Golden  together.  I 
thought  that  you  two  might  chance  to  love.  I 
thought  that  I  could  endure  it  here" — he  touched 
his  heart — "where  this  throbbing  thing  aches  and 
hungers,  to  see  you  two  together  and  be  to  her 
the  old  jesting  rigmarole  of  a  cousin  I  have  always 
been.  And  I  cannot!  Jack!"  he  cried  with  sud- 

62 


GOLDEN  BURKE 

den  violence,  "swear  to  me  that  you  will  never 
come  between  us!  Swear,  whatever  happens,  to 
be  my  loyal  friend !  Swear  to  help  me !  Swear !" 

I  took  his  hand,  that  frail  little  hand  of  his, 
and  held  it  fast. 

"I  swear  it,"  I  said  solemnly. 

Three  words!  Words? — three  fetters  that 
linked  me  and  my  honour  forever  to  the  destiny 
of  Michael  Burke. 

Their  effect  was  instant.  The  trouble  passed 
from  his  face  as  the  clashing  discords  of  an  or- 
chestra resolve  into  harmony. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  and  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  the  letter  to  his  cousin.  "Here,  Jack,  take 
this  and  post  it  yourself." 

"You  still  wish  to  send  that  preposterous  epis- 
tle?" I  asked. 

"Of  course,"  he  answered.  "Everything  is  just 
as  it  was,  except " 

"True,"  said  I  gaily,  "everything  is  precisely  as 
it  was,  except " 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

A  WEEK  later,  I  visited  Sir  Michael  again.  I 
was  rejoiced  to  find  him  in  high  spirits,  explosive, 
erratic,  voluble. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  he  cried.  "Lord !  but 
I  have  dreaded  this  meeting.  I  was  ashamed  to 
meet  you  after  that  day  of  emotions.  I  slashed 
the  core  of  my  little  soul  in  twain  and  showed  you 
the  worser  half,  the  elemental,  trogloditic  heritage 
from  our  human  past." 

"I  don't  like  that  way  of  phrasing  it,"  I  re- 
monstrated; "for  love " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  interrupted ;  "and  I  agree 
with  you !  But  to-day  I  want  you  to  see  the  other 
half  of  my  being.  Egotistical  ? — bien  entendu !  and 
I  glory  in  it.  The  highest  triumph  of  man  is  to  be 
egregious,  marked  out  from  the  herd.  And  I  am 
egregious;  I  am  an  Individual,  Jack  Dwight!" 

"I  am  almost  ready  to  admit  it,"  I  said,  laugh- 
ing. 

64 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

"Now  listen !"  he  continued.  "If  a  human  love 
aches  in  my  heart,  there  is  another  passion,  God 
knows  what,  that  masters  me.  And  it  is  incar- 
nate, Jack,  splendidly  incarnate  in  another  mis- 
tress  " 

He  moved  toward  the  window;  and  his  face 
was  that  wondering,  wistful  Eve  just  drawn  from 
Hades.  It  glowed  with  some  high  emotion  as  he 
went  on. 

" — Ah,  man! — such  a  mistress,  all  ghost  and 
stone;  embodied  yet  undatable !" 

And  he  swept  his  arms  out  with  a  great  ges- 
ture toward  the  city  that  rose  before  us,  saying 
simply, 

''Paris !— Paris !— Paris !" 

What  I  saw  is  still  hallowed  by  Sir  Michael's 
great  gesture  as  with  a  lasting  benediction. 

I  need  not  sketch  it  from  memory;  it  lies  be- 
fore me  as  I  write. 

The  Quai  Voltaire  is  just  below,  wood  paved, 
a  clamour  of  trams,  traffic  and  passing  life. 

But  the  clamour  is  not  that  of  the  roaring  Tur- 
bigo.  It  has  suffered  a  sea-change.  Something 
of  river  peace  touches  it  from  the  voiceless  stream ; 
something  of  forest  silence  is  hinted  by  the  fring- 
ing trees,  dark  peupliers,  green  platanes;  and  a 
musty,  cloistral  bookishness  haunts  the  old  stalls, 


GLAMOURIE 

where,  among  thumbed  vellum  and  flaking  calf, 
bowed  gentlemen  with  spectacles  placidly  bouqui- 
nent  forever. 

Beyond  the  quai  flows  the  river ;  and  across  the 
river  lie  the  Port  du  Louvre  and  the  Quai  des 
Tuileries,  along  which  passes  at  this  moment  a 
•^X  huge,  romantic,  brown  tram.  Romantic  ?  Surely ! 
for  it  is  crowded  with  joyous  Parisian  lovers 
bound  for  the  woods  of  St.  Cloud,  for  the  long 
vistas  of  Versailles. 

Behind  all  this  rises  '.he  Louvre,  the  background 
of  the  picture — the  Louvre  of  Henri  Quatre  link- 
ing the  Pavilion  de  Flore  with  the  Louvre  of  the 
Valois. 

That  is  the  view  in  front.  But  by  leaning  out 
of  the  window  one  sees  a  grey,  glimmering  reach 
of  the  Seine  running  to  right  and  left  under  a 
skyline  of  historic  stone,  a  contour  as  familiar  and 
dear  as  the  face  of  a  friend.  There,  toward  the 
Cite,  rise  the  square  tower  of  St.  Gervais,  a  pin- 
nacle of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  the  fretted  Heche 
of  Ste.  Chapelle.  There,  too  (what  memories 
they  hold !),  the  gothic  towers  of  the  Conciergerie, 
the  Tour  de  1'Horloge,  the  Tour  du  Roi. 

To  the  left,  toward  new  Paris,  the  stony  bulk 
of  the  Pont  Royal  clashes,  in  an  agreeable  an- 
tithesis, with  the  glass  dome  of  the  Grand  Palais ; 
66 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

and  the  trees  of  the  quais  and  the  Gardens  fill  with 
foliage  the  gap  between. 

That  was  what  I  saw,  as  Sir  Michael  and  I 
stood  by  the  open  window. 

After  his  dramatic  introduction  to  the  scene, 
he  was  silent  for  some  time;  and,  seeing  that  he 
was  really  moved,  I  gave  myself  wholly  to  the 
beauty  before  me. 

Suddenly,  though  the  quai  for  the  moment  was 
quiet,  the  house  was  shaken  by  some  vibration 
that  seemed  to  quiver  upwards  from  the  under- 
world. It  aroused  Sir  Michael  and  he  spoke 
whimsically,  his  emotion  gone. 

"I  live  anachronistically,"  he  said.  "I  stir  the 
dust  of  dead  history  into  the  fluid  acid  of  to-day. 
It  fizzes,  it  effervesces,  it  breaks  in  splendid  bub- 
bles. The  bubbles  are  the  future,  the  iridescent 
world  to  be! — Let  me  show  you.  Look  across 
the  river  and  back  into  history.  What  do  you 
see?" 

"The  Louvre  of  Henry  of  Navarre,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"No;  back  of  that!" 

"I  can't  get  further  back,"  I  confessed. 

"Look  again,  O  Jack !  and  with  the  magic  eyes 
of  fancy.  The  Louvre  has  gone!  In  its  stead 
a  ghostly  tower,  grey  and  grim,  the  spectre  of 
67 


GLAMOURIE 

the  Tour  du  Bois.  And  running  from  it  east- 
ward and  northward  a  ghostly  wall,  the  enceinte 
de  Charles  V.  And  further  up  the  stream,  on  this 
side,  behold  the  awful  phantom  of  the  Tour  de 
Nesle,  haunted  by  evil  things,  long  dead  and 
damned ! 

"And  think! — behind  those  towers  and  that 
wall  huddles  Paris,  my  Paris" — he  looked  pity- 
ingly down  on  the  visionary  city — "my  Paris, 
cowed,  trembling,  afraid.  Afraid  of  her  foes, 
afraid  of  her  kings,  afraid  of  her  priests !  Walls, 
Jack,  walls! — walls  around  the  city,  the  will,  the 
soul! 

"That  is  the  past;  now  for  the  present.  You 
felt  the  house  quiver  a  moment  ago?  That  was 
the  4:05,  running  under  the  quai  from  the  Gare 
d'Orsay,  drawn  by  a  great  electric  engine,  bound 
for  Orleans  and  the  flat  pasture-lands  of  Touraine. 

"Just  the  4:05,  Jack,  an  ordinary  train  direct 
carrying  ordinary  people  to  familiar  places — to 
Blois,  to  Amboise,  to  Tours.  But  what  a  miracle, 
this  4 :05 !  What  a  tingling  nerve-thread  reach- 
ing from  the  throbbing  brain  of  Paris  out  into 
the  green  world!  What  an  intelligencer  taking 
out  to  the  world  the  beauty,  the  wisdom,  the  won- 
der that  is  Paris! 

" — That  is  the  past,  Dwight,  as  I  envisage  it 
68 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

from  my  window — all  walls  and  towers  and  hud- 
dling fear! — that  is  the  present  as  it  quivers  up- 
wards from  the  4:05 — all  nerve  and  vibration 
and  expanded  life! 

" — Ah,  it  is  something  to  live  anachronistically 
anywhere,  to  stand  wide  a-straddle  on  past  and 
present  with  eyes  looking  far  into  the  unbuilded 
future" — there  was  an  amusing  suggestion  of  the 
Colossus  of  Rhodes  in  his  manner — "but  to  live 
so  in  Paris " 

And  he  paused,  as  if  to  allow  a  thought  to  grow 
in  the  silence,  while  he  looked  dreamily  out  on  the 
river. 

"Paris!"  he  whispered,  "Paris!    Paris!" 

"Tu  I' aimes,  ton  Paris"  I  said  sympathetically, 
giving  him  the  tutoiement  of  friendship. 

"Si  je  I' aimel" 

"Some  discrepancy  in  years,  Sir  Michael,  be- 
tween you  and  your  mistress." 

"Paris,"  he  answered,  "is  eternal  youth,  eternal 
virginity,  eternal  desire.  Other  cities  are  cities; 
she  is  the  Ewig-W eibliche  (may  she  forgive  me 
for  quoting  a  damned  German!)  wrought  into 
stone !" 

"What  of  London?"  I  suggested  slyly. 

"London  is  a  fourmiliere  of  Pharisees  in  top- 
pers, where  a  smug  divinity  in  episcopal  gaiters 
69  ' 


GLAMOURIE 

is  propitiated  once  a  week  with  printed  formulae. 
I  hate  toppers,  Jack,  and  all  other  hollow,  hard, 
well-licked  Prismisms." 

"Berlin—"  I  hinted. 

"A  barrack!"  he  shouted  with  his  face  aflame, 
"a  barrack  of  those  helmeted  Prussians  that 
marched  down  the  Champs-Ely  sees  on  March  i, 
1871 — think  of  it,  Jack! — my  Paris  sobbing  in 
the  dust,  le  bon  Dieu  holding  her  hands  for  com- 
fort, while  those " 

He  paused,  seeking  some  adequate  phrase,  and 
then  added  simply, 

"Damn  them!" 

Great  loves  and  great  hates  grow  side  by  side 
in  fertile  hearts;  and  the  roots  of  both  are  nour- 
ished by  the  same  good  soil. 

"And  the  other  great  city?"  I  asked. 

"New  York  ? — it  is  not  yet  a  city !  It  is  a  spot 
on  the  earth  where  men  of  different  races  have 
got  together  and  built  unto  themselves  skyscrap- 
ers! It  is  a  body  without  a  soul,  Jack;  salt  that 
has  not  found  its  savour.  And" — here  Sir  Mi- 
chael hummed  the  opening  bar  of  the  "Golden 
Calf"  of  Mephistopheles — "le  veau  d'or  est  tou- 
jours  debout" 

"Tell  me  more  about  Paris,"  I  said. 

"Paris  can't  be  phrased,  Jack.  Paris  is — Paris ! 
70 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

She  is  life,  warm,  fecund ;  and  life  can't  be  phrased 
either.  She  is  thought ;  and  the  mother  and  nurse 
of  thinkers.  She  is  the  great  Giver  of  the  world 
— the  great  Lover — I'ame  d'une  amante  qui  vie 
dans  un  corps  etranger" — and  his  voice  dropped 
to  a  reverential  whisper  as  he  added — "The  King- 
dom of  Paris  is  within  us." 

Then,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  he  repeated, 

"Paris  can't  be  phrased ;  but — just  look  at  her, 
Man! — just  look  at  her!" 

And  again  he  swept  his  arms  out  with  that 
great  gesture  toward  the  city,  murmuring, 
"Paris!" 

An  emotional  little  man,  this  Sir  Michael 
Burke ! 

Just  then  a  tug-boat,  a  remorqueur,  hauling 
three  barges  up  the  stream,  gave  a  shrieking 
series  of  blasts,  followed  by  four  distinct  whis- 
tles. 

"Tiens!"  exclaimed  Sir  Michael,  with  one  of  his 
flashing  transitions,  "Voild  mon  ami  Pierrot! — 
an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  of  all  the  remorqueurs 
on  the  Seine  the  most  blatantly  self-conscious.  Do 
you  know  the  meaning  of  his  whistle? — Not?  It 
is  a  warning  to  the  lock-keeper  at  the  ecluse  de  la 
Monnaie.  'Me  void!'  he  shouts,  'Pierrot!  J' arrive! 
Venire  St.  Gris,  j'arrive,  moil — Et  quel  travail, 


GLAMOURIE 

heinf — trois  challands  colossaux! — avec  des  car- 
gaisons  tout-a-fait  chonettes! — J'arrive,  moil 
Tiens!' 

"And  if  the  lock,  the  ecluse,  chances  to  be  full, 
the  lock-keeper  shows  a  red  disc  on  the  Pont  des 
Arts,  and  Master  Pierrot  sulks  alongside  the  Quai 
de  Conti  till  he  can  pass  through.  Later,  free  of 
his  challands,  he  will  ftaner  down  the  stream  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  wreathed  in  smoke  and 
humming  the  old  song, 

"  'Moi,  je  Hane; 

Qu'on  m'approuve  ou  me  condamne! 
Moi,  je  ftane!' ' 

"You  have  the  personifying  eye  of  the  poet, 
Sir  Michael,"  I  observed. 

"Ah,  if  I  were  a  poet,  Jack" — he  went  to  his 
table  and  returned  with  a  small  sheaf  of  manu- 
script notes,  from  which  he  read  here  and  there 
during  the  talk  that  followed — "if  I  were  a  poet, 
Jack,  I  would  expand  these  scrawls  into  a  great 
epic,  the  Epic  of  the  Seine.  I  see  it  all ;  it  hovers 
about  me,  ungraspable.  It  is  a  phantasmagoria 

the  River,  all  history,  all  modernity,  all  Paris! 

"The  boats  (how  I  love  them !)  are  the  dramatis 
personae.  They  speak,  sing,  font  de  grands  gestes, 
rushing  hither  and  yon. 

72 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

"And  the  thirty  bridges  say  their  say  in  pon- 
derous blank  verse ;  all  the  bridges  from  the  Pont 
National  to  the  Pont  d'Auteuil.  There's  antithe- 
sis for  you! — kingship  and  republic,  empire  and 
revolution,  peace  and  battle,  granite  arch  and 
steel  span,  St.  Louis  and  Mirabeau — all  swagger- 
ing, romantic  and  reminiscent! 

"No  blank- verse  for  the  River  though!  She 
sings  in  flowing  lyric  prose,  liquid  and  slow,  all 
the  way  from  the  woods  of  St.  Germain-les- 
Feuilles  to  the  salt  waters  of  the  Manche. 

"Not  alone  she  sings;  for  her  daughter-rivers 
have  their  music  too,  hints  of  the  winding  miles 
that  lead  to  Paris,  the  Marne,  the  noble  Oise,  the 
little  Ourcq,  the  Loing,  the  Aube,  the  Yonne.  One 
hears  them  all  through  the  epic,  like  rippling  harp- 
notes. 

"Oh,  what  a  mise  en  scene!"  continued  Sir  Mi- 
chael, "and  what  personnages! — The  Bird-boats 
begin  the  poem ;  and  what  names ! — Berichon,  the 
wren!  Fauvette,  the  warbler!  Goeland,  the  sea- 
gull! Linotte!  Pinson!  Mesange!  Colibri! — 
Voices  of  woods  and  river-pastures  these,  pipings 
from  the  Nivernais  and  the  corn-lands  of  Artois. 

"Then,  as  the  pipings  cease,  the  River  begins 
to  sing  in  a  far,  thin  voice:  'There  was  once  a 
little  temple  built  to  me  by  loving  Romans  ages 

6  73 


GLAMOURIE 

since.  It  stood,  all  white  and  fair,  in  a  green 
grove  of  the  Cote  d'Or  hard  by  the  Ferme  des 
Vergerots.  And  there  my  waters  sprang,  the  sil- 
ver waters  of  Sequana!' 

"This  song  of  peace  arouses  the  boats  of  bat- 
tle. Braggart  knaves  they  are! — Alma,  telling 
how  the  flag  of  the  empire  moved  toward  Sebas- 
topol;  Tolbiac,  boasting  how  the  Germans  were 
smitten  by  Clovis  when  France  began,  and  how 
the  pagan  king's  vow  to  the  new,  mild  God  of 
Clotilde  was  heard  in  heaven  above  the  clang  of 
swords. 

"But  the  River,  who  pays  small  heed  to  bat- 
tles, sings  on" — and  Sir  Michael's  vibrant  voice 
became  a  chanted  monotone — "  7  see  the  hills 
of  the  Cote  d'Or  and  the  ripe  sunlight  on 
Burgundian  vines.  I  taste  the  purple  oozings 
of  thy  wine-presses  and  the  must  of  thy  vats, 
Bourgogne!' 

"You  will  see,  Jack,  that  the  River  has  a  pretty 
touch  of  sentiment ;  but  it  needs  relief,  saillie.  So 
the  clown,  the  Champenois,  enters  now,  and  Pier- 
rot sports  with  him  in  Touchstone-wise.  Poor 
yokel! — there  is  an  old  French  proverb  that 
'Ninety-nine  sheep  and  one  Champenois  make  a 
hundred  beasts.'  And  Master  Pierrot  (who  is 
no  fool)  leads  the  talk  by  clever  byways  to  this 
74 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

ancient  jest ;  and  whenever  the  conversation  strays, 
'Revenons  a  nos  moutons,'  says  he. 

"But  the  joke  is  threadworn  at  last,  and  the 
River  consoles  the  clown  with  a  memory  of  his 
native  fields. 

"  'Lush  pastures'  "  intoned  Sir  Michael,  "  'lush 
pastures  and  browsing  herds!  I  hear  the  mowers 
that  whet  the  scythe;  I  hear  the  tinkle  of  thy 
Hocks,  Champagne!' 

"Another  interruption! — an  insurgent  mob,  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  boats,  storm  into  the  Epic : 
J agues,  an  apache  from  Les  Halles;  Angelique,  a 
precieuse  from  Le  Faubourg;  Assistant,  a  corn- 
mis  de  magasin;  President,  the  head  of  a  societe 
anonyme;  Hoche,  a  general;  Ampere,  a  savant; 
Centenaire,  a  veillard;  and  Guepe,  a  wasp,  a  gamin 
de  Paris.  And  a  host  of  others  too,  outlaws  of 
boatage,  under  strange  aliases,  Neptunus,  Abeille, 
Requin,  Eclair,  Centaure,  Tenace,  Luciline,  Rus- 
sie,  Licorne,  Travail.  I  love  those  names,  Dwight ! 

"And  the  bateaux-mouches,  boats  for  St.  Cloud, 
Charanton,  Auteuil,  rush  fiercely  among  them, 
shrieking  of  mighty  deeds;  and  the  mob  reels 
away,  singing  the  Ca  ira. 

"Ah,  that  Ca  ira! — the  River  has  heard  it  be- 
fore! What  does  it  mean  to  her? — a  touch  of 
warm  fugitive  colour  on  the  stream;  a  rain  of 
75 


GLAMOURIE 

pink  rose  petals,  for  all  she  knows  or  cares.  Her 
thoughts  are  otherwhere: 

"  'It  is  the  lie  de  France,  and  I  slide  below  my 
bridges.  Salut  old  Pont  Marie! — where  has  thy 
toll-gate  gone?  Salut,  dear  Petit  Pont! — forgive 
the  tenfold  jests  I  wrought,  thy  splintered  piles, 
thy  crumbled  piers.  Salut,  great  Pont  au  Change! 
— /  miss  the  Grand-Chatelet.  Salut,  my  brave 
Pont  Neuf! — does  Henri  guard  thee  still  f  Salut, 
stout  Pont  Royal! — royal  for  all  the  Ca  iras. 
Salut,  young  bridges  all!  Salut!' 

"The  River's  chant,  reminiscent  of  ancient 
Paris,  evokes  the  past" — Sir  Michael's  voice  be- 
came veiled  and  mysterious — "and  the  ghosts  of 
the  Vanished  Islands  rise,  those  dead  islands  of 
the  Seine  that  perished  long  ago.  The  He  des 
Javeaux  whispers  tales  of  four  centuries;  tells  of 
beginnings  of  silt  and  ooze;  how  it  became  He 
d'Antrague;  and  how  later  (as  lie  de  Louviers) 
it  gave  a  fete  ('folles  depenses!'  says  the  island) 
to  that  spendthrift  Henri  Deux.  All  dead  and 
gone!  King,  kingship  and  island,  all  passed  into 
the  night. 

"And  other  island-ghosts  float  mirage-like  into 
the  Epic,  moaning  old  histories.  'Where  are  my 
pastures?'  wails  the  He  aux  Vaches,  'my  herd- 
man's  house,  my  three  good  trees?  lie  Notre 
76 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

Dame  has  taken  all.  Helas!'  'And  where  am  I  ?' 
asks  the  lie  de  la  Gourdaine.  'No  passeur  aux 
vaches  can  find  me  now.  Helas!' 

"  'A'ie!  Aie!'  shudders  the  He  aux  Treilles,  'I 
saw  Jacques  Molay,  grand  maitre  des  Templiers, 
burnt  alive.  March  n,  it  was,  in  the  Christian 
year  of  1314.  Cursing  King  and  pope  he  died; 
and  his  hot,  charred  ashes  mingled  with  my  dust — 
It  was  not  good  to  feel.  A'ie!  A'ie!' 

"Ah,  it  would  be  a  great  episode,  Jack,  that  ap- 
parition of  the  Vanished  Islands.  Hamlet's  father 
were  nothing  to  it. 

"The  ghosts  gone,  there  follows  a  babel  of 
voices.    All  the  Things  piled  on  the  quais  begin 
to  chatter  all  at  once ;  all  the  Freight-Things  from  1  f 
Ivry  to  the  Point  du  Jour.  What  a  jargon !  What  ^ 
modernity !    Nothing  ghostly  here. 

"From  the  Quai  de  la  Rapee  comes  a  clatter  of 
wood,  flotsam  of  all  the  forests  of  France,  where 
the  dechireurs  and  debardeurs,  with  tandems  of 
six  mighty  stallions,  work  clamorously. 

"A  bacchic  song  rises  from  the  Quai  de  Bercy, 
a  raucous,  vinous  chorus  from  ten  thousand  bar- 
rels. Drunken  dogs  they  are! 

"And  grating,  black  words  growl  from  the  Port 
de  Mazas.  That  is  the  charbon  de  bois,  and  a 
crude,  rough  fellow  he  is ! 

77 


GLAMOURIE 

"He  has  his  match  though  in  the  materiaux  de 
construction,  that  shout  hard,  granite  phrases 
(profane  rascals  they!)  from  the  Port  du  Louvre 
and  the  Quai  d'Orsay. 

"But  suddenly  the  clamour  ceases.  Everything 
is  listening.  And  one  hears  a  fluttering  of  birds, 
a  scampering  of  squirrels,  a  rustling  of  leaves  as 
ladders  are  thrust  among  them,  and  a  dropping, 
dropping  of  ripened  fruit.  Sweet  voices  these, 
country  voices — the  apples  at  the  Port  de  la  Greve 
telling  of  the  orchards  of  Normandy. 

"That  would  be  another  great  episode,  that 
babbling  of  the  Things  on  the  quais. 

"  'Normandie!'  chants  the  River,  as  if  a  good 
memory  was  evoked  by  the  name.  'Treetops! 
Treetops! — and  the  reddening  fruitage  there.  I 
hear  the  crunch  of  the  cider-press;  and  the  fra- 
grant pumice  of  thy  apples  floats  on  my  stream, 
Normandie!' 

"Then,"  continued  Sir  Michael,  looking  down 
the  river  as  if  he  saw  it  all — "then  all  is  quiet, 
the  river  deserted,  when  from  under  yonder  dark 
arch  of  the  Pont  Royal,  tugging  three  great 
chalands,  appears  a  dwarfish  boat.  She  puffs 
hard  in  the  swirl  of  the  current ;  but — she  comes ! 
she  comes! 

"Can  you  read  her  name,  Dwight?  See,  in 
78 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  SEINE 

brave,  white  letters  on  her  prow — Quand- 
Meme! 

"Quand-Meme! — in  spite  of  all! 

"She  is  a  symbol,  Dwight;  she  is  Paris,  my 
Paris !  Ay !  the  stress  of  the  stream  quand-meme; 
Sedan,  quand-meme;  Strasbourg,  quand-meme; 
the  Prussians  quand-meme;  her  kings,  emperors, 
communes,  priests  and  red  terrors,  quand-meme; 
she  comes,  frank  and  free — the  love-giver — the 
love- winner ' ' 

His  voice  faltered  and  then  he  added,  "The 
shield  of  Paris  bears  a  ship  under  full  sail.  I 
would  write  under  it — Quand-Meme!" 

Sir  Michael  was  silent  for  so  long  after  this 
that  I  asked  him  if  the  Epic  ended  there. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "the  River  has  one  last 
word  to  say.  'Salut  Honfleur!'  it  chants,  '/  taste 
the  salt  of  the  great  sea.  I  go  to  carry  the  wine- 
glow  of  the  Burgundian  sun  to  the  cold  deeps — 
Salut!' 

"Then  night  would  fall,  the  vaporous  night  of 
Paris.  Lights  everywhere ! — with  her  dear  lovers, 
intertwined,  moving  among  them.  Lights  on  the 
streets,  the  quais,  the  bridges — lights  that  are  ruby 
and  topaz,  silver  and  amber  aflame,  flash  down  on 
the  stream  to  be  caught  up  and  danced  with  in  a 
mad  carnival  of  colour.  And  through  it  all  move 
79 


GLAMOURIE 

the  sidelights  of  a  few  last  stragglers  on  the  river 
— green  lamps  that  toil  up  the  tide ;  red  lamps  that 
slide  down  to  some  haven  beyond  the  Point  du 
Jour.  Last  of  these,  passes  the  Vega,  that  steel- 
blue  star — whispering  of  over-worlds,  and  spirit- 
ual cities — afloat — afloat" — Sir  Michael  made  a 
vague  gesture  skywards — "That  is  the  end." 

"And  why,"  I  asked,  "don't  you  write  your 
Epic?" 

"For  a  hundred  potent  reasons,  Jack.  The  first 
is  that  it  is  one  of  the  many  beautiful  things  no 
fellow  can  do!" 


VI 

A  WHOLE  YEAR 

"You  must  make  Paris  grow,"  said  Sir  Mi- 
chael during  our  memorable  talk  under  the 
Quand-meme,  "from  your  Paris  to  my  Paris." 

And  this  to  a  fumbling  noun-man ! 

Let  me  think  it  out 

— Item,  the  Paris  of  John  Dwight,  student  of 
law,  a  screen  etched  with  black  lines  of  mood, 
slashed  by  roaring  Turbigos. 

— Item,  the  Paris  of  Sir  Michael  Burke,  my 
dear  Master,  that  Paris  that  "can't  be  phrased, 
I'ame  d'une  amante." 

— Item,  I  have  but  to  draw  a  line  that  shall 
show  the  profile  of  the  long  slope  between 
them. 

A  line! — here  is  something  concrete,  a  symbol 
that  may  be  grasped  by  a  noun-man.  I  can  en- 
visage (as  Sir  Michael  would  say)  the  contour 
of  that  climbing  slant. 

A  line ! — I  can  see  it,  hard  and  sharp  below,  ris- 
81 


GLAMOURIE 

ing,  rising,  growing  soft  and  vague,  vanishing 
above  in  wisps  of  vapour 

But  a  line  means  continuity. 

And  continuity  is  an  abstraction  that  (at  least 
in  a  task  like  this)  eludes  the  touch  of  a  noun- 
man. 

Tant  pis! — it  shall  be  a  dotted  line. 

Indeed,  these  beginnings  of  Sir  Michael's  story, 
up  to  the  English  episode  of  the  next  chapter,  can 
only  be  told  by  scorning  time  and  grouping  its 
subtle  life-elements:  these  to  build  up  the  Man 
himself — these  to  suggest  the  interplay  of  soul  be- 
tween the  Man  and  the  City.  The  first  grouping 
is  done,  tant  bien  que  mat.  The  second,  still  in 
high  scorn  of  time,  I  shall  now  essay. 

So  I  turn  to  my  journal  and  copy  here  and 
there  from  the  records  of  a  beautiful  Parisian 
year.  And  because  I  detest  (surely  every  reader 
shares  that  hatred)  the  journal  form  of  history, 
I  have  given  no  dates  and  have  arranged  these 
notes  into  something  like  a  sequence 

Remember ! — this  is  the  record  of  a  whole  year. 
So  pass  through  it  with  kindly  deliberation,  all 
ye  that  read,  and  let  the  twelve  slow  months  flow 
measuredly  through  the  reading. 

Remember,  too,  that  the  record  is  a  dotted  line, 
a  skyward  slope;  a  symbol  hinting  (if  the  reader's 

82 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

fancy  aids)  how  the  Idea  of  Paris  grew  in  the 
brain  of  a  man 

The  clouds  broke  away  and  a  caress  of  sunshine 
touched  the  sauntering  throng  on  the  Champs- 
Elysees. 

"Paris,"  remarked  Sir  Michael  with  the  New- 
tonian air  of  one  announcing  a  law  of  nature, 
"Paris  is  the  only  city  that  dimples  when  she 
smiles!"  *  *  * 

"Shall  we  go  in?"  I  asked. 

We  were  passing,  one  windy  autumnal  day,  in 
front  of  the  tomb  of  Napoleon. 

"Jamais  de  la  vie!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  hate  that 
banging,  cannonading  Italian." 

Just  then  a  fierce  gust  from  the  west  swept 
along  the  Avenue  de  Tourville,  driving  before  it 
a  long,  serried  army  of  brown  platane  leaves. 
They  charged  across  the  Place  Vauban,  and  then 
went  whirling  skyward  over  the  houses,  scattered 
in  a  thousand  ways. 

Sir  Michael,  smiling  bitterly,  watched  the  last 
leaf  disappear  and  murmured, 

"Waterloo!" 

Then  he  turned  to  me. 

"The  wind !"  he  said,  "the  blustering  fiat  of  the 
man-beast  that  understands  the  psychology  of  the 
83 


GLAMOURIE 

crowd-beast.  Yet  look! — here  and  there  on  the 
platanes  still  hangs  a  self-willed  leaf — an  Individ- 
ual, Dwight — some  Spinoza,  Descartes  or  Michael 
Burke! 

"Therefore,  let  it  be  said  in  after  days  that  Mi- 
chael Burke  passed  in  scorn  by  the  tomb  of  Na- 
poleon ! 

"Yet,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  his  voice  soften- 
ing a  little,  "there  must  have  been  some  redeeming 
love  of  Paris  in  the  man.  He  wanted  to  be  buried 
here — fJe  veux  que  mes  cendres  reposent  sur  Us 
bords  de  la  Seine.' 

"And  here  they  are — those  poor,  paltry  ashes 
that  loved  Paris! 

"Come,  Dwight,  just  for  those  saving  words  of 
his  let  it  be  said  in  after  days  that  Michael  Burke 
forgave  Napoleon! 

"Let  us  go  in  1" 

*  *       * 

We  were  talking  of  telepathy. 

"Psychology  says  'not  proven,' "  observed  Sir 
Michael,  "a  Scotch  verdict. 

"Perhaps! — yet  this  is  surely  true:  in  Paris 
thought  is  fluent.  It  vibrates  like  sound.  It 
warms  like  flame.  It  quickens  like  life. 

"Thought  flows  into  the  soul  in  Paris !" 

*  *       * 

84 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

Sir  Michael  led  me  past  St.  Etienne  du  Mont 
and  down  the  slope  of  Rue  Clovis. 

"There,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  right,  "that  is 
what  I  brought  you  to  see." 

I  saw  the  remains  of  an  old  wall  and  a  mound 
of  earth  covered  with  trees. 

"That  truculent,  time-worn  thing,"  he  ex- 
plained, "is  a  bit  of  the  enceinte  de  Philippe-Au- 
guste,  built  about  1220." 

"D wight,"  he  continued  solemnly,  "I  want  you 
to  envisage  the  six  walls  of  Paris.  Listen  to  the 
dry  catalogue! 

"A  wall  around  the  Cite,  with  the  Seine  itself 
for  moat.  Lutece! 

"This  wall,  ordained  by  the  King  as  he  parted 
for  the  third  crusade — Paris! 

"The  enceinte  de  Charles  V,  marked  to-day  by 
the  Boulevards  and  the  two  old  portes.  Etienne 
Marcel! 

"The  wall  of  Louis  XIII.     Richelieu! 

"The  wall  of  Louis  XVI.  Les  fermiers  ge- 
neraux! 

"The  present  fortifications  of  1840 — Thiers! 

"Six  walls,  did  I  say  ? 

"No ;  six  days — the  six  days  of  the  creation  of 
Paris ! 

"And  now  her   Sabbath   dawns.     No  more 
85 


GLAMOURIE 

walls — Paris  world-wide ! — Paris  space-high ! — 
Micha " 

He  paused,  hesitating. 

"I  am,"  he  added,  turning  to  me  with  a  smile, 
"having  one  of  my  rare  spasms  of  modesty  at  this 
moment — and  yet — perhaps — nom  de  Paris! — 

perhaps " 

*  *      * 

It  was  a  Quatorze  Juillet  on  the  Place  de  la  R6- 
publique. 

"Come,"  said  Sir  Michael,  "let  us  plunge  deep 
into  that  surging,  happy  throng !  I  love  to  bathe 
in  the  human  sea  of  Paris  and  feel  the  honest, 

bourgeois  warmth  of  her  heart." 

*  *       * 

"I  am  jealous  of  that  man,  Jack." 

We  were  watching  an  ouvrier  repairing  a  bit 
of  wood-pavement. 

Then,  to  my  amazement,  Sir  Michael  ran  out 
into  the  street  and  touched  the  man  on  the  shoul- 
der. 

"Permettez,  mon  ami,"  said  he. 

And  Sir  Michael  Burke,  taking  his  hatchet 
from  the  gaping  man  and  a  block  of  paving  from 
a  pile  near  by,  kneeled  in  the  mud  of  the  Quai 
Malaquais. 

He  hacked  the  block  to  the  proper  size,  pounded 
86 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

it  into  place  and  handed  the  hatchet  back  to  the 
ouvrier  with  a  fervent, 

"Mille  remerciements,  mon  ami!" 

"A  symbol,  Jack,"  he  said,  as  he  rejoined  me 
on  the  sidewalk;  "that  is  the  heart  of  Michael 

Burke!" 

*  *       * 

"It  is  a  favourite  saying  of  the  Island-English," 
grumbled  Sir  Michael,  "that  the  French  have  no 
word  for  'Home.'  I  have  even  read  it  in  little  fool 
books. 

"  'Home'  indeed ! — in  the  nation  that  speaks  of 
a  Home  for  Inebriates! — in  the  nation  that  in- 
vented the  Club ! 

"No;  give  me  the  Foyer! — warm,  glowing, 
comforting — mother  of  France! 

"No;  give  me  Paris! — alive,  alight,  alove — 
foyer  of  the  whole  shivering  world!" 

And  Sir  Michael  held  out  his  little  hands,  rub- 
bing them  together  like  one  who  stands  in  winter 

by  the  crackling  logs  of  Yule. 

*  *       # 

Sitting  outside  the  Cafe  de  la  Regence  at  mid- 
night, we  saw  a  hulking,  creaking,  two-wheeled 
cart  laden  with  carrots  pass  on  its  way  to  Les 
Halles. 

"If  Hamlet,"  said  Sir  Michael,  "could  follow 
8? 


GLAMOURIE 

the  dust  of  imperious  Caesar  to  a  bung-hole,  why 
should  not  we,  O  Horatio- Jack !  follow  yonder 
carrots  ?" 

"To  Les  Halles,  good  my  lord?"  I  asked. 

"Nay;  but  to  a  good,  bourgeois  pot-au-feu,  to 
the  belly  of  a  poet,  to  the  blood  of  his  heart,  to 
the  hot  grey  of  his  brain  and  to  the  poem  that  is 
ripening  there. 

"So!  we  have  beaten  Hamlet;  we  have  seen  a 
red  carrot  become  a  living  Epic.  Ah,  Jack ;  such 
a  whimsey  as  that  is  possible  only  in  this  Paris 
of  mine. 

"So  here's  to  her  health,"  he  added,  sipping  his 

sir  op  de  groseille. 

*       *       * 

I  met  Sir  Michael  one  afternoon  on  the  Rue 
des  Saints-Peres.  Swinging  from  his  hand  was 
a  cream-bottle. 

"Ah,  Jack,"  he  said  blithely,  dangling  this  ob- 
ject before  my  eyes,  "what  is  this?" 

"Six  sous  de  creme,"  I  guessed. 

"Correct  as  to  substance  and  price,"  he  as- 
sented; "but  you  miss  the  quintessence  of  the 
thing.  Look  at  it  well" — and  he  brandished  it 
theatrically — "this  cream  bottle  is  Paris !" 

"Perhaps,"  I  agreed,  "but  your  Paris  will  soon 
be  butter  if  you  shake  it  like  that." 

88 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

"Paris,"  he  went  on,  "is  a  highly  organised,  in- 
curious solitude.  No  one  cares  a  rouge  Hard  what 
the  next  man  does.  The  flaunting  cream  bottle 
of  Sir  Michael  Burke,  Baronet,  his  blond  curls, 
his  hunch,  his  exiguity,  all  pass  ungaped  at  here. 

"Paris  never  stares ! — Once  you  learn  the  code 
of  her  streets  you  move  therein  as  in  the  heart  of 
a  primeval  forest;  you  see  men  as  trees  walking 
and  hear  their  voices  as  the  rustle  of  wordless 

leaves." 

*       *       * 

"Dwight,  do  you  know  what  a  taquet  is?" 

I  did  not. 

My  ignorance  prompted  action.  We  took  a 
bateau-mouche  and  landed  at  the  ponton  on  the 
Quai  de  Bethune. 

"Behold,"  he  said,  pointing  to  one  of  the  cleats 
to  which  the  boats  are  made  fast,  "behold  a 
taquet. 

It  was  an  unlovely  object,  a  stout,  brownish 
block  of  wood  with  projecting  horns,  deeply 
grooved  by  the  rubbing  of  the  cables. 

"Do  you  see  the  beauty,  Jack?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Ah,  man,  look  at  those  grooves.  What  colour ! 
What  gloss!  And  the  grain  of  the  wood,  Jack; 
the  grain  of  the  wood !" 

7  89 


GLAMOURIE 

"Paris?"  I  hinted,  anticipating  a  metaphor. 

"Bien  entendu,"  he  admitted,  "Paris ! 

"Paris,  Jack,  like  that  taquet  there,  has  the  holi- 
ness of  immemorial  use.  The  wasting  of  time; 
the  scarring  of  war;  the  footprints  and  hand- 
prints of  toil ;  and  the  friction  of  unresting  thought 
— all  these  have  made  Paris  sacramental  by  the 
revelation  of  the  Thing-Itself — the  grain  of  the 

wood,  Jack ;  the  grain  of  the  wood !" 

*       *       * 

"Jack,  what  time  is  it?" 

We  were  passing  St.  Eustache  at  the  moment, 
and  I  looked  by  instinct  at  the  sun-dial  over  the 
southern  portal. 

"At  last !"  exclaimed  Sir  Michael  triumphantly, 
without  waiting  for  my  answer,  "at  last  you  are 
a  child  of  Paris.  You  turn  to  her  instead  of  to 
your  own  dark  pocket ! 

"Ah,  push  that  thought,  Jack ;  push  that  eman- 
cipating thought!  No  more  self-searching;  no 
more  furtive  New  England  introspection  (black 
Calvinistic  heritage!)  ;  but  the  great  Dial  of  Life 
lit  by  the  frank,  revealing  Parisian  sun.  The 
shadow  of  its  gnomen  is  truth,  circling  daily  for 
all  the  world  to  read,  across  time  and  infinity, 
ghost  and  flesh,  woman  and  man,  nature  and  art, 
and  the  miracle  that  makes  them  one. 
90 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

"And,  dear  man ! — what  a  witchery  it  is  to  be 

told  even  the  time  by  Paris !" 

*  *       * 

"The  gothic !" — and  Sir  Michael  with  a  sweep- 
ing gesture  indicated  Notre  Dame — "never  forget 
that  it  began  in  the  He  de  France. 

"She  yearned  for  light  even  then,  my  Paris! 
And  she  builded  up  and  up;  pointed  her  arches; 
heightened  her  choirs  and  naves;  pierced  her 
lancettes  and  rosaces;  raised  her  light  clerestories ; 
arched  her  flying  buttresses ;  and  sent  her  carved 
Heches  soaring  skyward. 

"And  to-morrow  (mon  Dieu,  who  knows?)  she 
may  rend  the  vaulted  roof  from  that  gothic  choir 

and  let  in  the  verity  of  the  unpriestly  light !" 

*  *       * 

A  white,  misty  afternoon  in  the  Garden  of  the 
Tuileries. 

"What  is  that  ?"  asked  Sir  Michael,  pointing  at 
a  statue. 

"A  robust  hag,"  I  answered,  "with  a  most  cynic 
leer." 

He  led  me  a  few  paces  to  the  left  and  pointed 
again  to  the  figure. 

The  hag  had  gone  and  in  her  place  a  maiden 
turned  a  sad  face  with  closed  eyes  toward  the  sky. 

"Le  Masque,  by  Christophe,"  explained  Sir  Mi- 
91 


GLAMOURIE 

chael.  "But,  ah,  Dwight,  it  is  more  than  a  sculp- 
tor's trick:  it  is  an  allegory.  It  is  Paris,  my 
maiden  Paris! 

"The  leering  mask — what  is  that  but  the  screen 
she  holds  between  her  sacred  mysteries  and  the 
tainted  worldlings  of  the  earth? 

"Only  a  mask  (let  Island-England  and  Tar- 
tuferie  everywhere  take  note  of  that!)  and  my 
Paris  is  that  virgin  marble  there;  that  dumb  face 
with  closed  eyes;  that  ache  and  agony  of  aspira- 
tion. 

"And  some  day — ha ! — the  mask  crashes  on  the 
stones — she  opens  those  eyes — mystic — spirit- 
searching — she  flashes  forth  Herself " 

"When?"  I  asked,  for  he  paused  and  his  face 
grew  wistful. 

"When  I  attain  1"  he  answered  simply,  looking 
up  over  the  blind,  white  maiden  into  the  blind, 

white  sky. 

*       *       * 

We  took  shelter  one  day  during  a  passing 
shower  under  the  eastern  guichet  of  the  Louvre. 

"What  a  downpour!"  I  exclaimed,  as  we 
watched  the  blue-white  fall  of  the  globed  rain- 
drops against  the  background  of  St.  Germain 
TAuxerois. 

"Downpour?"  repeated  Sir  Michael  thought- 
92 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

fully.  "Perhaps — yet  in  Paris  a  shower  always 
brings  me  this  pretty  fancy — I  feel  my  city  rising, 
rising,  rushing  skyward  through  a  motionless 

galaxy  of  water-stars!" 

*       *       * 

"Camulogene,"  remarked  Sir  Michael,  with  an 
explanatory  wave  of  his  hand  toward  the  parade- 
ground  at  Issy  les  Moulineaux. 

We  were  sitting  on  the  fortifications  of  Paris, 
watching  Mr.  Farman's  aeroplane  (then  making 
its  fledgeling  essays)  as  it  was  brought  to  the 
starting  place. 

"Ought  I  to  understand  what  you  mean?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"You  ought,"  he  answered  severely ;  "Camulo- 
gene was  the  first  historic  Parisian.  Hereabouts, 
in  52  B.  c.,  he  led  the  Parisii  in  their  last  stand 
against  the  power  of  Rome.  He  was  an  old  man 
then ;  but  he  knew  and  practised,  says  the  story, 
all  the  duties  of  a  great  captain.  Labienus,  the 
Roman,  marched  down  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine. 
Camulogene,  catching  him  in  the  marais  east  of 
Paris,  routed  his  trained  legions.  Labienus  re- 
treated to  Melun,  sacked  the  village,  crossed  the 
river  there  and,  descending  by  the  right  bank,  ap- 
peared before  Paris.  Camulogene  burnt  the  city, 
destroyed  its  bridges  and,  protected  by  marais  and 

93 


GLAMOURIE 

river,  camped  over  yonder,  eastward  of  this  spot. 
Labienus,  making  a  sham  attack  at  night  with  a 
few  boats  and  much  clamour  from  Charanton, 
quietly  crossed  the  Seine  at  Auteuil  with  the  main 
body  of  his  troops.  The  morning  saw  him  here 
in  order  of  battle.  Camulogene  regained  his  lost 
youth  at  the  sight.  With  Paris  flaming  in  his  old 
heart,  he  led  her  fierce  children  to  their  great  de- 
feat ;  and  here  he  died,  as  such  a  man  should  die, 
with  a  ring  of  Roman  dead  around  him.  That 
was  Camulogene!" 

At  this  moment  the  exhaust  of  the  motor  be- 
gan a  deafening  musketry;  the  propeller  drove 
toward  us  a  blast  of  sand  and  gravel;  and  the 
aeroplane,  after  a  short  run  on  the  ground,  rose 
heavily  in  the  air.  A  few  hundred  straight  yards, 
and  it  was  on  earth  again,  hidden  by  a  group  of 
agitated  spectators. 

"We  have  seen  a  man  fly!"  said  Sir  Michael. 
"Here,  above  the  battlefield  of  her  defeated 
Camulogene,  hovers  victorious  Paris ! 

"What  antithesis  a  wordmonger  could  make  of 
this :  past  and  present,  earth  and  air,  despair  and 
hope,  war  and  peace,  blood  and  petrol,  Camulo- 
gene and  Farman! 

"But  this  is  no  place  for  gibble-gabble ;  the 

thing  is  too  big  to  play  with 

94 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

"For  what  have  we  seen?  We  have  seen  the 
body  of  a  man  (note,  Jack,  the  body  of  a  man) 
lift  itself  ever  so  little  into  the  stuff  that  body 
breathes.  Not  much  to  brag  of,  is  it,  from  the 
cosmic  point  of  view? 

"But  read  it  as  a  symbol  and  it  bulks  colossal. 
Surely,  Dwight,  surely  these  foolings  with  force, 
these  daft  steamings,  these  haggard  motorings, 
these  dizzy  balloonings,  these  groping  flights,  are 
but  symbols  of  the  soaring  lusts  of  the  ghost  that 
is  man. 

"They  are  words — big,  prophetic  words — that 
is  all.  They  tell  of  warm,  ambient  airs  of  the 
Divine  Thought.  They  prefigure  the  free  soul 
afloat  therein,  will-winged,  triumphant 

"Words — ah,  man! — what  words! — and  ut- 
tered here — here  where  defeated  Paris  heard  the 

dying  warcry  of  Camulogene!" 
*       *       * 

"Let  us  see  the  lamps  lighted  from  Mont- 
martre,"  proposed  Sir  Michael  one  afternoon  in 
late  October. 

That  is  why  we  were  leaning  on  the  picket 
fence,  glossy  with  such  use,  just  below  Sacre 
Cceur. 

Paris  stretched  below  us,  a  sharp,  ashen  fore- 
ground of  mansarde  and  tree-top,  shading  away 
95 


GLAMOURIE 

through  red-grey  fog  into  a  mirage  of  floating 
roofs.  But  Sir  Michael,  for  the  moment,  did  not 
look  at  his  city. 

"Watch,"  he  said,  brushing  with  his  cane  a 
clump  of  shrubs  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence; 
and  a  white  flight  of  feathered  seed  tufts,  caught 
by  the  air  that  moved  up  the  slope,  swirled  gently 
away  in  a  mounting  spiral. 

"She  plants  her  metaphors  everywhere,"  he 
murmured  thoughtfully;  "and  they  always  rise — 
always  rise — even  to  the  twitterings  of  her  spar- 
rows." 

It  was  so.  Two  sounds  rose  to  us  on  our  height 
— the  shouts  of  children  at  play  in  the  wooded 
square  below,  and  the  good-night  twitterings  of 
the  sparrows. 

Sir  Michael  pointed  westward.  The  sky,  cut 
by  the  lavender  hills  of  Meudon,  was  a  yellow 
glow  toward  the  sunset;  and  in  the  glow  hung 
the  Eiffel  Tower,  black  and  sharp,  its  base  hid- 
den in  the  fog. 

"The  Sceptre,"  said  he,  indicating  the  tower; 
and  I  thought  the  image  just. 

"The  Sceptre,"  he  repeated;  "you  know  what 
it  is  used  for?" 

"A  wireless  telegraph  station,"  I  answered. 

"Yes ;  a  man  presses  a  key ;  there  is  a  crackling 

" 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

flash;  and  the  Word,  the  Logos,  quivers  into 
ethereal  space.  That  miracle  wrought,  what  shall 
be  impossible? — This  thought,  this  love,  this  God- 
head"— he  struck  his  brow — "shall  it  not,  too, 
throb  upward  to  the  over-worlds,  masterful,  cre- 
ative ? 

"Dwight,  were  I  a  writer  I  would  be  an  arrant 
symbolist.  My  books,  my  simple,  earth-to-earth 
stories,  would  always  strive  to  phrase  (like  this 
brute  matter  we  see  and  touch)  the  inarticulate 
mysteries  of  the  spirit.  Force  as  a  symbol  of 
ghost ! — there  is  no  other  art,  no  other  literature !" 

"Speaking  of  literature,"  I  said,  "the  opera- 
house  down  there  takes  me  back  to  a  certain  shelf 
of  books  in  my  nursery.  But  I  can't  find  the 
book." 

And  I  indicated  the  Opera  looming  below, 
peaked  and  winged,  afloat  in  the  vapour. 

"Perhaps  you  had  an  illustrated  Bible  for  the 
young,"  he  hinted. 

"Noah's  ark,"  I  exclaimed. 

"Of  course,"  said  he;  "when  the  waters  in- 
creased and  it  was  lifted  up  above  the  earth — it  is 
all  upwards,"  he  added  with  a  spiral  sweep  of  his 
hand  over  the  city. 

Cottony  tufts  of  steam  puffed  here  and  there  in 
the  dull  vapour;  and  a  fallow  smoke  rose  fan- 

97 


GLAMOURIE 

like  from  some  spiring  factory  chimneys.  It  was 
all  upward,  as  Sir  Michael  said ;  steam  and  smoke, 
shouts  and  twitterings,  the  pink,  tangled  shreds  of 
the  upper  fog,  the  Ark  always  floating  higher,  and 
the  Sceptre  rising  imperious  in  the  mounting 
glow 

A  lamp! — a  single,  shrill  light  that  called  for 
help  among  the  shadows  below. 

Then  a  hungry  crescent  moon  suddenly  ap- 
peared near  the  Sceptre;  and  by  some  hint  from 
her  pallor  we  knew  that  horizon  gold,  unseen  by 
us,  was  flowing  molten  behind  the  smoke  fog 

Higher! — the  Sceptre  in  the  upbearing  sunset 
and  the  Ark  in  the  mantling  vapours. 

Then  I  heard  Sir  Michael  laugh  softly,  and  he 
jabbed  his  ten  fingers  repeatedly  at  the  sky,  ex- 
claiming, "Chimney-pots !" 

There  seemed  ten  thousand  of  them  (I  had  not 
seen  one  before)  all  pointing  at  the  heavens,  now 
a  throbbing  lilac. 

Sir  Michael  pointed  again.  Southward,  float- 
ing very  high,  was  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon. 
The  mirage  of  a  moment,  it  came  and  was  gone. 

With  its  passing  we  looked  for  the  Ark.  It, 
too,  had  vanished,  and  in  its  place  was  a  white, 
drifting  vapour,  as  though  its  ghost  were  taking 

flight 

98 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

A  second  lamp ! — held  dumb  and  helpless  in  the 
fog  far  away,  opposite  the  sunset. 

After  this  there  was  a  long  pause.  Sir  Michael, 
tense  and  expectant,  clutched  the  pickets,  looking 
down  on  the  darkness  and  whispering  to  himself. 
"Light  comes  very  slowly,"  he  murmured,  "al- 
ways very,  very  slowly." 

Then  (was  it  a  message  to  the  now  flaming 
sunset?)  a  single  bird  of  the  night  shot  by  us 
westward  like  a  bolt ;  and  as  if  the  sky  in  answer 
had  showered  down  flecks  of  its  fire,  lamp  after 
lamp  winked  out  of  the  shadow ;  street  and  square 
etched  themselves  in  sparks;  mansarde,  bright 
salon  and  flaring  etalage  beamed  cheerily;  and 
Paris  was  alight ! 

We  watched  there  silently  till  the  glow  had 
gone  in  the  west  and  the  Sceptre,  regnant  still, 
had  faded  to  a  phantom.  Then  Sir  Michael  laid 
a  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Come,  brother  symbolist !"  said  he,  "let  us  go 
up  to  her  lights." 

"Up?"  I  repeated,  puzzled. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  brushed  the  feathered 
shrubs  again  with  his  cane,  and  led  the  way  down 
the  long  stairway  to  the  Place  St.  Pierre. 
*       *       * 

To  envisage  the  past  one  should  often  climb 
99 


GLAMOURIE 

the  tower  of  Notre  Dame.  It  is  convincing  to 
feel  the  time-worn  steps  and  the  old  stone-grit 
under  the  feet.  It  is  a  loss  of  centuries  to  come 
out  of  the  spiral  darkness  into  the  high  sunshine 
on  the  gallery,  where,  joining  the  vigil  of  the 
carved  chimeres,  one  looks  down  on  Paris. 

Old  Paris,  this,  an  open  book  of  history,  with 
pages  of  island,  hill  and  river,  lettered  with  quar- 
ried stone. 

I  was  on  this  gallery  one  golden  September  day, 
when  the  whim  seized  me  to  mount  the  northern 
tower. 

As  I  came  out  of  the  little  turret  at  the  top  I 
saw  Sir  Michael. 

He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  me. 

He  had  tossed  aside  his  great  slouch  hat,  and 
the  yellow  sunlight  fell  on  his  shining  hair. 

I  slipped  away  unseen,  knowing  that  I  had 
chanced  on  a  secret  of  holy  emotion ;  for  he  was 
murmuring  something  that  I  could  not  hear,  and 
his  arms  were  lifted  to  the  golden  haze  that  hung 

shimmering  over  Paris. 

*       *       * 

A  year !  yet  these  notes  are  all  that  seem  to  bear 
on  Sir  Michael's  history. 

And  in  this  placid  time,  through  all  these 
months  of  intimacy,  he  never  spoke  again  of 
100 


A  WHOLE  YEAR 

Golden  Burke.  But  I  saw  often  in  his  face  the 
look  that  agonised  it  when  he  called  his  heart 
"this  throbbing  thing  that  aches  and  hungers." 

Yet  I  dared  not  speak  to  him  and  say,  "Go  to 
her,  Sir  Michael,  and  all  will  be  well."  I  could 
only  ask  myself,  as  he  spoke  of  Paris,  if  at  times 
she  did  not  symbolise  his  human  love. 


MOTHER  MAG 

"I  AM  happy,"  writes  Miss  Golden  Burke,  "that 
dear  Cousin  Michael  has  a  watchful  friend  to  love 
and  guard  him.  It  is  sometimes  rather  lonely  on 
the  heather." 

These  words  (we  have  written  each  other  twice 
or  thrice  during  the  year)  reach  me  on  a  Sunday 
in  early  spring.  The  friendship  begun  in  the  Hall 
of  the  Innocents  is  a  twelvemonth  old.  Yet  (what 
a  false  measure  is  time!)  my  true  life  and  that 
friendship  are  coeval. 

Sir  Michael's  story  begins  to-day — the  preced- 
ing six  chapters  are  all  by  way  of  prologue.  The 
noun-man,  obedient  to  command,  has  done  his 
work  on  the  Man  and  the  City.  Henceforth  he 
has  only  to  record  the  march  of  an  Indian  file  of 
days  (one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  in  all)  that 
lead  Sir  Michael,  by  a  fatal  logic,  from  his  vigil 
on  the  Quai  d'Orleans  to  his  final  victory  in  St. 
Eustache. 

102 


MOTHER  MAG 

The  Quai  d'Orleans! — like  many  a  spot  in 
Paris,  it  is  hallowed  by  old  memories. 

Yet  that  Sunday  morning  I  reached  it  en  flaneur. 
My  mind  was  all  capitulation  to  the  vagabond 
season  and  it  was  but  a  lizard  instinct  that  drew 
me  to  the  Quai  d'Orleans,  where  the  sun,  a  flaneur 
too,  lingers  on  chilly  spring  mornings.  "It  is 
sometimes  rather  lonely  on  the  heather";  and  I 
may  have  sought  this  unfrequented  place  to  taste 
to  the  full  the  happy  sadness  of  solitude. 

For  it  is  remote  from  the  fever  of  life,  this  cor- 
ner of  the  old  He  St.  Louis;  and  its  bluff  sides 
protect  it  from  the  business  of  the  river.  The 
upper  quai  divides  at  this  point,  the  right  fork 
continuing  on  its  level  toward  the  Pont  St.  Louis, 
the  left  running  down  in  a  long,  cobbled  slope  to 
the  water.  There,  at  its  foot,  horses  come  to  be 
washed  in  summer;  and  there,  too,  comes  the  de- 
mure fisherman  of  the  Seine  to  project  his  huge 
bamboo  and  watch  the  placid  drifting  of  his  tiny 
quill.  He  dreams,  for  aught  I  know,  of  mer- 
maids ;  but  his  prey,  almost  as  mythical,  is  an  un- 
emotional minnow,  finger  long. 

Looking  out  from  under  the  branches  of  the 

peupliers  that  line  the  quai,  one  sees  the  suave  flow 

of  the  stream,  beaded  with  globules  of  sunlight, 

and  a  monkish  monotone  of  weathered  stone.  Op- 

103 


GLAMOURIE 

posite,  the  rounded  forefoot  of  the  He  de  la  Cite, 
boat-like,  parts  the  river  right  and  left ;  and  above 
the  forefoot,  from  a  cluster  of  trees,  rises  the  ap- 
sidal  end  of  Notre  Dame. 

This  is  not  the  Notre  Dame,  geometric  and 
arch-episcopal,  that  staggers  the  gazer  on  the 
parvis,  but  an  intimate  thing,  a  remnant  of  old 
Gallic  grace.  The  crocheted  spire  playfully  dom- 
inates it ;  the  towers,  dwarfed  by  perspective,  peer 
half-humorously  over  the  shoulders  of  the  tran- 
sept; and  the  eastern  chapel,  clutched  by  the 
curved,  blanched  fingers  of  the  huge  buttresses, 
tells  (by  I  know  not  what  subtle  suggestion)  of 
the  human  meaning  of  it  all,  of  eternal  faith  made 
tangible  and  parochial. 

Aspiration  and  adoration  imaged  in  stone !  As 
seen  from  this  cloistral  spot,  the  river  telling  its 
rosary  below,  the  sun  holding  its  sacrament  above, 
it  incarnates  all  that  is  catholic  in  the  faith  of 
man. 

And  apart  from  its  spiritual  aspect  it  is  precious 
to  me.  It  marks,  as  I  said  before,  the  material 
beginning  of  Sir  Michael's  history. 

For,  as  I  strolled  toward  the  place,  I  saw  him 
there,  sitting  on  a  sketching  stool,  huddled  against 
the  stone  parapet  of  the  quai.     His  back  was 
towards  me;  and  he  faced  the  cathedral. 
104 


MOTHER  MAG 

Ah,  "it  is  sometimes  rather  lonely  on  the 
heather";  and  I  drew  near  to  greet  him.  My 
footsteps  rang  loud  on  the  pavement  and  I  stopped 
within  a  few  feet  of  him.  As  he  did  not  stir,  I 
passed  to  his  right  and  looked  at  his  face.  It  was 
white  and  wistful  (the  Eve  hopeless  in  Hades,  I 
thought),  with  wide  eyes  staring  over  the  river. 
But  those  eyes  were  blind  to  the  things  about 
them  and  I  passed  him  unnoticed. 

As  I  walked  away,  I  was  joined  by  an  agent 
who  had  been  watching  my  examination  of  Sir 
Michael. 

"C'est  un  drole  de  type,  qa,"  he  remarked,  with 
a  jerk  of  his  thumb  at  the  huddled  figure. 

I  admitted  that  it  was  without  doubt  a  "funny 
fellow." 

"C'est  un  loufoque,  le  p'tit  bossu!"  he  said, 
meaning  that  the  little  hunchback  was  mad. 

"No  one  but  a  loufoque"  he  added,  "would 
stare  at  nothing  for  a  whole  year." 

"A  year!"  I  exclaimed,  startled. 

"A  year,"  repeated  the  agent,  pleased  with  my 
interest. 

"In  all  weathers?" 

"In  all  weathers!" 

"Winter  and  summer?" 

"Winter  and  summer!" 

8  I05 


GLAMOURIE 

And  the  man,  taking  off  his  cap  to  give  dra- 
matic effect  to  the  gesture,  tapped  his  forehead 
significantly. 

"C'est  un  foil,"  he  concluded  with  an  air  of 
finality,  and  resumed  his  beat,  with  another  jocose 
jerk  of  the  thumb  toward  Sir  Michael. 

I  walked  homeward  with  an  anxious  mind. 
The  man  was  a  fool  of  course.  What  would  a 
policeman  know  of  a  high  soul's  craving  for  com- 
munion with  the  Quiet? 

Yet  I  was  haunted  by  the  memory  of  what  I 
had  seen,  that  little,  white,  huddled  figure  looking 
out  over  the  river  with  blind,  wistful  eyes. 

"It  shall  not  be" — so  ran  my  musing — "it  shall 
not  be.  A  man  has  a  body  as  well  as  a  soul,  and 
Sir  Michael's  is  sadly  fragile.  What  says  Miss 
Golden? — I  am  to  be  a  watchful  friend  to  love 
and  guard  him.  Soit!  I  shall  save  him  from 
rheumatisms,  pneumonias,  neuralgias  and  all 
other  pathologic  results  of  his  suicidal  city-wor- 
ship— I  shall,  in  her  name,  and  by  my  own  right 
of  friendship,  delicately  but  resolutely  protest." 

Acting  on  this  resolve,  I  called  on  Sir  Michael 
early  that  afternoon.  Before  I  knocked  I  heard 
his  voice  raised  in  tones  of  musical  protest. 

"You  are  wrong,  O  beautiful  cat,"  he  was  say- 
ing, "wrong — felinely  and  prismatically  wrong!" 
106 


MOTHER  MAG 

I  opened  the  door  on  hearing  his  deep  "Entrez" 
and  found  him  standing  in  a  dramatic  attitude 
in  front  of  his  great  table,  on  which  was  seated 
Prism,  staring  at  him  gravely. 

"Ah,  Jack,"  he  exclaimed,  on  seeing  me,  "I  am 
glad  you  are  come.  You  shall  judge  between  me 
and  this  slothful,  Epicurean  wallower,  this  tempo- 
maniac,  this  Luther,  Calvin  and  Wesley  of  a  pro- 
testing cat.  Listen  attentively  and  focus  the  high 
candle-power  of  your  intellect  on  these  two  ques- 
tions. 

"First  question,"  he  continued  solemnly,  hold- 
ing up  a  finger,  "Prism  says  stay;  I  say  go. 
Which  is  right?" 

With  the  scene  on  the  Quai  d'Orleans  in  mind 
I  decided  rapidly. 

"Judgment  in  your  favour,"  said  I.  "Action  is 
forever  nobler  than  inaction." 

Sir  Michael  chuckled.     Prism  yawned. 

"Second  question,"  he  went  on.  "Prism  says, 
consult  John  Dwight ;  I  say,  consult  Mother  Mag. 
Again,  which  is  right?  And  remember  this! — I 
shall  act,  act,  act  on  your  decision." 

Sir    Michael's    triple    emphasis    spoke,    as    it 

always  did,   of  his   earnestness;   so  I   pondered 

judicially.     The  decision  was  not  difficult,   for 

Prism  symbolised,  in  his  speech,  the  common- 

107 


GLAMOURIE 

place,  or  (to  quote  his  phrase)  "the  poachy 
platudinous." 

"Mother  Mag,"  I  said  at  last.  "I  tread  my 
not  unnatural  curiosity  under  my  forensic  feet. 
The  unknown  is  forever  higher  than  the  known. 
I  pronounce  for  Mother  Mag." 

"Jarniprisme!"  shouted  Sir  Michael  in  triumph, 
"the  die  is  cast!  Le  de  en  est  jete! — I  go  to 
Mother  Mag!" 

"It  is  not,  my  friend,  that  I  shun  your  confi- 
dences— "  I  began,  where  he  cut  me  short. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  know  that" — he  spoke  with 
affectionate  gayety — "indeed,  I  know  that.  No! 
— it  is  the  Divine  Chance.  Alea  jacta  est!  The 
lot  is  cast  into  the  lap,  but  the  whole  disposing 
thereof  is  with  the  Lord:  a  wise  old  book,  that 
Bible.  Alea  jacta  est!  I  take  it  as  an  omen.  It 
is  mystery  and  Mother  Mag !  and  you,  Jack,  shall 
burst  in  ignorance  till  the  day  of  enlightenment 
shall  come." 

"I  shall  not  burst,  Sir  Michael.  I  prefer  the 
lock  to  the  key." 

"I  believe  you  do ;  though  it  is  not  a  New  Eng- 
land trait.  Well,  you  shall  have  your  lock;  and 
from  this  day  on  you  shall  move  among  riddles." 

"You  permit  me  the  use  of  the  keyhole?" 

"Freely;  but  through  it  you  will  see  only  a 


ghostly  glimmer." 


108 


MOTHER  MAG 

Then  he  became  suddenly  grave,  and  continued 
impressively : 

"Jack,  for  a  year  and  a  half  past  I  have  given 
myself  to  an  experiment,  to  something  no  human 
soul  has  ever  tried  before.  And  I  have  failed, 
failed,  failed!" — his  face  wore  for  the  moment 
the  wistful  look  I  had  seen  that  morning  on  the 
Quai  d'Orleans — "but  now — I  feel  it,  I  know  it! 
— a  new  era  dawns  for  Michael  Burke.  Light 
will  come  to  his  poor  groping  eyes,  and  he  shall 
learn  thereby  what  fresh  sacrifice  to  lay  on  the 
altar.  Yes,  Jack ;  my  inner  voice  tells  me  to  be  of 
good  cheer.  This  thing" — he  stamped  on  the 
floor — "this  thought" — he  clutched  fiercely  at  the 
space  above  his  head — "I  shall  bridge  the  gulf 
between  them!  Yet,  nom  de  Paris! — can  it  be 
that  in  Island-England  any  help  will  come  to  this 
mad  little  Irish  dreamer?  Tell  me  that,  thou 
bursting  Jack!" 

"I  shall  not,"  I  answered  firmly.  "Go  to 
Mother  Mag." 

"Jarniprisme!"  he  shouted  again,  resuming  his 
wild  gayety,  "we  will  go  to  Mother  Mag!" 

"We?" 

"We!  Have  you  anything  to  keep  you  in 
Paris?" 

"Nothing  but  this,"  I  said,  drawing  a  book 
from  my  pocket. 

109 


GLAMOURIE 

"Droit  International  Publique,"  he  read.  "Here, 
my  Prism,  we  leave  this  for  your  amusement. 
Your  puritan  instincts,  Jack,  do  not  revolt  against 
travelling  on  the  Sabbath  day?" 

"You  know  they  don't." 

"In  that  case" — and  he  touched  the  bell — "we 
will  go  to  London  to-day." 

"London?"  I  repeated. 

"London  to-day;  and  Ipswich  to-morrow." 

"Ipswich?" 

"Justement!  Where  else  could  one  consult 
Mother  Mag?  I  shall  go  incognito — that  will  be 
fun!  You  will  put  up  at  the  White  Horse,  the 
inn  where  Mr.  Pickwick  had  his  adventure  with 
the  maiden  lady.  Henri" — this  to  the  gargon  who 
answered  his  bell — "L'Indicatew,  s'il  vous  plait." 

It  was  brought,  the  great  time-table  of  all 
France. 

"Here,  Jack,"  said  Sir  Michael,  as  he  searched 
the  index,  "is  the  greatest  classic  the  world  has 
yet  produced.  Every  one  skips  Homer's  catalogue 
of  the  fleet ;  every  one  studies  this  catalogue  of  the 
trains.  All  those  nerve-filaments  we  spoke  of 
vibrate  here,  vibrate  Paris  out  to  France.  What 
allurements  of  siren  names !  What  history !  What 
modernity !" 

"And  to  think,"  I  suggested  wickedly,  "that 
no 


MOTHER  MAG 

not  one  of  those  nerve-filaments  ever  reaches  a 
siren  name  on  time." 

"Hush,  cynic!"  said  he,  as  he  found  the  train 
he  sought.  "Void;  it  is  now  half  past  two — we 
leave  at  four  o'clock.  We  reach  Charing  Cross 
at  10 145  this  evening — a  wonderful  train.  We'll 
sleep  at  the  Cecil — we" — here  he  seized  a  Brad- 
shaw — "we  leave  Liverpool  Street  at  4:55  on  the 
Monday,  getting  to  Ipswich  at  6 123  that  evening. 
I  shall  note  the  return  trains  now." 

Which  he  proceeded  to  do.  No  man,  at  times, 
was  more  meticulously  methodic  than  my  erratic 
friend. 

"There,"  he  said,  when  it  was  done.  "And  now, 
be  off  with  you ;  pack  your  bag  and  meet  me  at 
the  Gare  du  Nord  on  the  train.  And  make  your- 
self beautiful !" 

"Is  Mother  Mag  so  nice  as  to  externals?"  I 
asked. 

"Ay;  she  will  study  you,  rind  and  core.  And" 
— here  Sir  Michael  smiled,  but  ah !  how  wistfully 
and  sadly — "we  may  see  some  one  else,  Jack,  some 
one  else." 

Then  I  understood!  Sir  Michael  was  going 
to  visit  his  cousin  and  wanted  my  help  and  sym- 
pathy. 

I  went  to  the  Rue  Medicis,  packed  my  valise, 
HI 


-• 


GLAMOURIE 

and  by  ten  minutes  to  four  was  sitting  beside  my 
friend  in  the  train. 

After  we  had  made  ourselves  comfortable, 
donned  our  travelling  caps  and  secured  places  in 
the  wagon  restaurant  for  dinner  later  on,  I  ven- 
tured a  question. 

"Sir  Michael,"  said  I,  "would  it  be  raising  the 
veil  of  the  mysteries  to  tell  me  who  Mother 
Mag  is?" 

"No;  Mother  Mag  is  no  secret,  though  she  is 
rather  a  weird  woman.  She  was  my  nourrice. 
From  her  breast  I  drank  the  truculence  and  free- 
dom of  ancient  Ireland ;  and  from  her  lips  I  heard 
strange  old  tales  of  witches,  ghosts  and  banshees. 
She  loved  my  mother  and  me  and  no  one  else,  I 
fancy,  until  Golden  came  into  her  life.  Her  hus- 
band died  shortly  before  I  was  born,  her  baby 
soon  after.  I  have  never  heard  her  mention  either. 

"She  is  something  of  a  witch,  Jack.  For  in- 
stance, she  always  foresees  my  rare  visits  to  her. 
To-morrow  evening  I  shall  find  her  kitchen  table 
made  ready  for  my  supper,  with  the  great  blue 
bowl  and  silver  mug  I  used  as  a  child  and  a  steam- 
ing dish  of  porridge.  Golden  tells  me  that  my 
bowl  and  mug  are  generally  hidden  like  sacred 
relics  and  that  if  they  appear  I  always  enter  soon 
after." 

112 


MOTHER  MAG 

"I  have  read  of  such  things,"  I  said,  "under 
long  names,  telepathy,  veridical  hallucinations  and 
v     so  on." 

j*  "In  our  case,  Jack,  it  is  Celtic,  racial.  Her  love 
for  me  as  a  baby  was  savage,  wolfish.  You  know 
that  a  clumsy  housemaid  let  me  fall,  causing  my 
deformity.  When  the  doctor  made  his  prognosis 
Mother  Mag  went  mad  with  rage,  attacked  the 
poor  maid  with  a  carving  knife  and  stabbed  her 
three  times  before  she  could  be  mastered.  Fortu- 
nately, the  maid  lived  and  the  matter  was  kept 
quiet ;  but  out  of  that  red  passion  sprang,  I  fancy, 
the  sympathy  between  us." 

"Sir  Michael,"  I  remarked,  "there  must  be  in 
such  cases  a  strong  sending  station  as  well  as  a 
sensitive  receiving  station.  The  miracle  is  not 
all  Mother  Mag's.  She  is  no  doubt  highly  recep- 
tive ;  but  you  are  surely  violently  projective.  The 
energy,  the  current,  the  psychic  flow,  comes  from 
you." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  slowly  and  thoughtfully, 
"that  is  true.  I  have  the  energy,  and  had  I  chosen 
to  play  with  it  I  could  have  shown  some  amazing 
tricks.  But,  apart  from  Mother  Mag,  the  tele- 
graphic 'phase  of  the  problem  does  not  interest 
me.  My  Psyche  flies  at  higher  game!" 

"Explain,   Sir  Michael." 

H3 


GLAMOURIE 

"No,"  he  answered,  laughing;  "still  burst  in 
ignorance! — let  me  complete  my  tale  of  Mother 
Mag.  I  have  been  in  peril  several  times:  a  rail- 
way wreck  in  the  States;  a  typhoid  in  Ceylon;  a 
storm  on  the  Persian  Gulf — Mother  Mag  has  felt 
the  danger  come  and  pass ;  and  Golden  and  I  have 
made  such  comparisons  of  dates  and  hours  as 
makes  the  coincidence  certain.  In  fact,  nothing 
grave  can  befall  me  unknown  to  Mother  Mag." 

"It  is  convenient,"  I  suggested,  "to  have  a  fam- 
ily witch  to  consult." 

"Ah,"  he  replied,  "I  don't  consult  her  witchery, 
but  her  common-sense.  Now,  I  have  no  common- 
sense  whatever.  And  you  have  very  little " 

"My  word,  Sir  Michael!  and  yet  you  told  me 
once  that  I  was  smugly  sane  or  some  such  reas- 
suring adjective." 

"Sanity,  Jack,  is  not  common-sense.  No;  you 
and  I  whip  and  spur  our  well-bred  reasons;  we 
gallop  down  no-thoroughfares;  we  scramble 
through  hedges;  we  get  nowhere.  Mother  Mag 
jogs  straight  along  a  County  Council  highroad 
and  pulls  up  at  some  inn  we  have  known  all  our 
lives;  some  inn  where  there  is  an  old,  weather- 
beaten,  crudely  painted  sign  that  says  Cupid  or 
Daily  Bread  or  Flesh  and  the  Demi.  And  there 
she  finds  what  we  sought.  We  think  in  words: 
114 


MOTHER  MAG 

she  thinks  in  things.  That  difference  marks  the 
gap  between  culture  and  common-sense." 

After  uttering  this  aphorism  Sir  Michael  de- 
voted himself  to  a  sheaf  of  Ipswich  newspapers, 
chuckling  prodigiously  at  what  he  read. 

The  journey  is  a  blur  of  vague  pictures :  Bou- 
logne, the  jetties  and  the  boats  plying  the  river- 
harbour  ;  the  "Invicta"  threshing  through  the  crisp 
seas  of  the  channel;  Folkstone,  the  chalk  cliffs 
ghostly  in  the  shadows ;  Kent  with  a  rush  of  dusky 
leas,  downs,  tilled  fields  and  hop-vines  shown  by 
the  glare  of  the  train — all  these  pictures  moved  by 
feverishly,  with  the  flicker  of  a  cinematograph. 
And  at  last  came  lights,  "the  lights  of  London 
flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn,"  and  we  rolled  into 
Charing  Cross. 

This  aroused  Sir  Michael,  who  had  not  spoken 
since  we  left  Folkstone. 

"And  to  think,"  he  said,  "to  think  that  we  are 
four  hundred  and  fifty  kilometres  from  our  foyer. 
Think  of  the  Seine  to-night  and  the  swirl  of  lights 
on  the  Seine. 

"Jarniprisme!"  he  shouted  suddenly,  to  the  evi- 
dent alarm  of  a  fat  porter  who  was  taking  his 
traps,  "I  wish  I  were  back  in  Paris !" 

"I  think  you  forget  something,  Sir  Michael,"  I 
remonstrated. 


GLAMOURIE 

"What  do  I  forget?" 

"The  inn  with  the  old  painted  sign  that  says 
Cupid;  the  inn  where  you  shall  lodge." 

When  I  saw  his  face  and  heard  his  answer  I  re- 
gretted my  words. 

"Forget?"  he  said  haggardly— "forget ?" 


VIII 

JARNIPRISME ! 

"JACK,"  said  Sir  Michael,  as  we  sat  next  morn- 
ing after  breakfast  in  the  smoking  room  of  the 
Cecil,  "go  forth  and  see  London!  Gaze  on  its 
toppers;  weep  in  the  Poets'  Corner;  moon  about 
the  Temple ;  lunch  at  the  'Cheshire  Cheese' ;  ride 
through  the  Strand  on  a  penny-bus ;  and  meet  me 
at  Liverpool  Street  at  4:55." 

"Come  with  me,"  I  urged. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "I  can  no  longer  see  Lon- 
don." 

"Pourquoi  pas?" 

"Because  over  London,  as  I  walk  her  streets, 
hangs  a  visionary  Paris,  the  mistress  of  my  soul. 
And  between  the  city  above  and  the  city  below 
flash  jagged  lightnings  of  comparison.  These 
blind  me,  Jack,  and  I  cannot  see.  No;  go  forth 
alone!" 

"And  you,  Sir  Michael?" 

"I  shall  curl  myself  up  in  this  huge,  soft 
117 


GLAMOURIE 

nest  of  a  chair" — he  did  so — "and  dream  of 
Paris." 

And  he  closed  his  eyes,  with  a  gesture  toward 
the  ceiling. 

I  left  him  to  his  dreams  and  went  forth  into 
the  hurly-burly  of  the  Strand 

An  "escaped  colonial"  is  usually  charged,  like 
a  Ley  den  jar,  with  an  emotion  of  high  voltage 
by  the  first  shock  of  contact  with  the  historic 
stones  of  London.  And,  if  he  chances  to  write, 
this  stored  electricity  slowly  escapes  later  on  in 
perennial  banalities. 

Two  things  concurred  to  spare  the  reader,  in 
my  case,  the  discomforts  of  this  phenomenon. 

For  one,  my  heart  was  so  intent  on  the  goal  of 
our  journey  and  what  Sir  Michael  might  find 
there,  that  there  was  scant  room  for  other  emo- 
tions. 

And  again  (surely  no  other  "escaped  colonial" 
has  been  so  cheated  of  his  heritage)  I  was  haunted 
by  Sir  Michael's  parting  words. 

"A  visionary  Paris!"  High  in  the  smoke  of 
London  it  hung,  all  wavering  pinnacle  and  tremu- 
lous dome  and  filmy  trees.  It  hovered  above  me 
all  day,  this  dream-city  of  Sir  Michael's ;  and  Lon- 
don, toiling  below,  seemed  a  sordid  welter  of 
smoke-breathing  creatures,  a  metropolis  of  the 
118 


JARNIPRISME! 

nether  world.  It  was  a  pretty  fancy,  my  over- 
Paris,  but  an  indifferent  guide  to  London. 

And  was  it  indeed  only  fancy,  the  reflex  of  a 
whimsical  phrase?  Had  Sir  Michael,  curled 
dreaming  in  his  "soft  nest  of  a  chair,"  no  part 
in  it  ?  I  asked  myself  these  questions,  and  thought 
of  his  mental  communications  to  Mother  Mag,  as 
I  rode  through  the  Strand  on  my  penny-bus  on  the 
way  to  the  station. 

Sir  Michael  was  there  before  me.  He  was 
cheerful  and  voluble,  and  began  to  talk  as  soon 
as  we  had  taken  our  seats  in  the  train. 

"Ah,  Jack,"  he  began,  "I  have  had  dreams,  vic- 
torious dreams !  And  you,  how  have  you  fared  ? 
Has  the  English  blood  in  you  throbbed  and  siz- 
zled? Have  you  thrilled?" 

"Only  once,  Sir  Michael.  That  was  in  the 
Temple,  when  I  came  by  chance  on  a  simple  stone 
and  read  the  words  'Here  lies  Oliver  Goldsmith.' ' 

"Ay ;  it  is  a  mysterious  spot,  that  grave  of  Gold- 
smith. An  enigma  lies  there." 

"A  riddle  is  buried  in  every  grave,"  I  remarked 
sententiously. 

"True !  but  no  such  riddle  as  this :  how  did  that 
vain,  fidgeting,  posturing  Irishman  write  Gold- 
smith's works?  Answer  me  that,  if  you  can!" 

"Perhaps  the  inspirational  theory  explains  it," 
119 


GLAMOURIE 

I  hazarded.     "The  man  was  a  pipe  that  divinity 
played  on,  making  music." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  cried  Sir  Michael,  becom- 
ing excited.  "I  believe  in  the  Individual,  with  a 
great  big  I,  and  in  its  eternal  significance." 

He  waved  his  little  hands,  tossed  back  his  hair ; 
and  his  golden  voice  vibrated  through  the  rattle 
of  the  train  as  he  continued : 
^  "Jarniprisme!  Listen  to  me,  my  Jack,  while  I 
destroy  Science  and  deify  the  Individual.  It  is 
part  of  my  theory  of  the  universe  and  I  am  giv- 
ing my  life,  my  life,  Jack !  to  its  proof." 

Knowing,  as  I  do  now,  the  event  toward  which 
he  was  moving,  I  see  a  strange  foreshadowing  in 
these  words.  I  know  that  they  troubled  me  after- 
wards with  echoing  repetitions. 

"Jack,"  he  continued,  "modernity  is  the  dupe  of 
its  Science !  And  what  is  she,  this  Science  ?  She 
answers,  7  am  the  detection  of  similarities' 

"So  defining  herself,  what  does  she  do,  our  lady 
Science?  Why,  she  goes  a  fishing,  Jack.  She 
drags  her  net  through  the  sea  of  Immensity  and 
catches  a  shoal  of  Individuals.  And  she  fingers 
them,  this  gentle  detecter  of  similarities,  sorts  out 
those  that  have  a  Common  Quality  and — lets  the 
rest  go.  There,  Jack,  is  part  of  the  shoal  es- 
caped ! 

1 20 


JARNIPRISME! 

"What  next?  Why,  blandly  blind  to  this  es- 
cape, she  proceeds  to  give  a  name  to  that  precious 
Common  Quality;  and  she  classifies  it  and  glori- 
fies it  and  presently  forgets  that  it  is,  after  all, 
only  a  name. 

"And  when  she  forgets,  what  happens?  Why, 
man,  all  the  rest  of  the  shoal  of  Individuals  es- 
capes, rejoins  the  others,  and  they  go  swimming 
off  together  into  the  Immensities,  the  Eternities — 
whence  they  came. 

"And  the  mystery  of  their  Individuality,  the 
only  real  thing  about  them,  is  a  mystery  still. 

"Does  lady  Science  fret?  Not  a  bit!  Still 
blandly  blind,  she  pins  to  a  card  something  that 
never  existed,  saying  'Eureka!' 

"I  learned  that  truth,  Jack,  by  watching  the 
old  sparrow-charmer  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens. 
The  crowd  watches  him  at  work,  thinking,  'Those 
are  sparrows'  (pinning  on  a  foolish  name,  you 
see)  ;  'what  wonderful  things  he  makes  them  do !' 
The  sparrow-charmer  thinks,  'Those  are  feathered 
Individuals;  each  comes  to  its  crumb  in  an  indi- 
vidual way ;  and  I  know,  because  I  have  watched, 
each  of  those  ways.  The  crowd  knows  not  the 
Individual.  Let  it  pay  for  its  ignorance!' 

"And  the  crowd  pays,  marvelling  at  the  indi- 
viduality of  the  Individual ! 

n  121 


GLAMOURIE 

"There  are  no  sparrows!  There  are  no 
men!  The  universe  is  a  welter  of  Individ- 
v  uals!  And  here,"  concluded  Sir  Michael,  "end- 
"^•jeth  the  first  lesson.  Tell  me  more  of  your  Lon- 
don thrills." 

"I  had  no  more,"  I  answered ;  "for  you  bothered 
me  with  your  phantom  Paris." 

And  I  told  him  of  the  fancy  that  had  spoiled 
London  for  me,  accusing  him  laughingly  of  being 
its  cause. 

"No,  Jack,"  he  said  seriously;  "I  had  nothing 
to  do.  with  it,  at  least  consciously.  My  Psyche, 
as  I  said  yesterday,  flies  at  higher  game.  It  was 
just  your  fancy;  and  a  very  lovely  one." 

Then,  with  a  radiant,  boyish  smile,  he  ex- 
claimed, 

"Jarniprisme!  I  shall  see  the  lights  on  the  Seine 
to-morrow  night!" 

"Tell  me,  Sir  Michael,"  said  I,  "the  meaning 
of  your  new  and  bizarre  expletive." 

"Jarniprisme?"  he  laughed.  "Why,  that  has 
an  amusing  history.  Jarnidieu,  meaning  je  rente 
Dieu,  was  an  old  French  oath.  Henri  Quatre  was 
very  fond  of  it,  to  the  great  distress  of  his  Jesuit 
confessor,  whose  name  was  Coton.  Henri's  habit 
was  deep  rooted  and  the  Jesuit's  reproofs  had  no 
effect.  The  familiar  Venire  St.  Gris!  was  often 
122 


JARNIPRISME! 

too  mild  for  the  royal  temper.  At  last  Pere  Coton 
had  an  idea — 'Sire/  he  said,  'if  you  find  yourself 
absolutely  forced  to  deny  something,  don't  deny 
God;  deny  me  instead.'  Henri  was  pleased. 
'Soit!'  he  agreed.  'Je  dirai  desormais  je  renie 
Coton.'  He  kept  his  word;  and  the  oath,  cor- 
rupted to  jarnicoton,  passed  from  the  king  to  the 
people,  so  that  before  long  the  whole  kingdom 
was  denying  the  Jesuit  confessor." 

"Which  was  probably  just  what  my  sly  Hugue- 
not king  wanted." 

"Probably.  Well,  I  have  adapted  the  oath  to 
my  needs.  I  deny  Prism  and  in  him  all  that  is 
prismatique  and  credo-ised  and  topper-ised  and 
lady-science-ised.  Jarniprlsme!  you  may  use  it 
too,  if  you  like." 

This  was  but  a  fragment  of  the  talk  with  which 
Sir  Michael  filled  the  hour  and  a  half  while  our 
train  was  running  down  through  Essex  and  Suf- 
folk. This  fragment,  however,  is  all  that  bears  on 
the  "central  fact,"  as  he  called  it,  of  his  strange 
story. 

My  exclusion  of  the  rest  of  this  conversation 
leads  me  to  insert  here  a  parenthetic  word  to  the 
reader  concerning  my  duty  as  biographer,  as  I  un- 
derstand that  duty. 

"It  is  not  of  me  you  will  write,  not  of  me!" 
123 


GLAMOURIE 

said  Sir  Michael  during  the  conversation  in  the 
shadow  of  the  "Quand-meme !"  And,  except  so 
far  as  has  been  needful  to  envisage  him,  this 
phrase  and  what  follows  it  has  been  the  test  and 
measure  of  my  work.  By  it  I  have  selected  here 
a  flash  of  eloquence  or  passion,  there  a  whimsey, 
a  gesture,  an  expletive,  often  disconnected,  often 
disproportioned,  but  always  bearing,  not  on  Sir 
Michael,  but  on  the  Thing  that  he  came  to  do. 

It  is  well  that  I  have  held  myself  to  this  iron 
rule.  Else  my  work  would  have  no  limits;  for 
supposing — absurd  thought! — that  I  could  paint 
Sir  Michael  as  he  lived,  how  could  I  keep  the  "cen- 
tral fact"  from  being  lost  in  the  spaciousness  of 
the  man? 

Space! — that  is  the  best  single  word  for  Sir 
Michael.  I  never  touched  the  bounds  of  his 
mind. 

Light! — that  is  the  next  best  word.  I  never, 
in  my  "pretty  sanity,"  learned  to  bridge  the  logical 
gulfs  between  his  thoughts,  gulfs  that  he  flashed 
across. 

Perhaps  the  ferment  of  mysticism  he  saw  in  me 
never  quickened  so  far.  I  do  not  know.  But,  in 
fact,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  I  admired  and 
loved,  but  I  did  not  understand  Sir  Michael. 

Now  it  is  different.  In  the  light  of  what  he  did 
124 


JARNIPRISME! 

I  can  at  last  read  the  pages  of  his  soul ;  and,  as  I 
read,  some  reserve  in  my  own  puritan  nature 
breaks  down  and  I  can  give  myself  to  my  task, 
selecting,  rejecting  and  arranging  with  (as  it 
sometimes  seems  to  me)  a  certain  inspiration  of 
choice. 

This  has  not  a  modest  sound,  perhaps ;  but  then, 
as  Sir  Michael  once  said,  "Modesty  is  the  sole 
flamboyant  virtue,  the  only  one  that  blushes!" 

This  ends  the  parenthetic  word  to  the  reader, 
which  may  be  supposed  to  fill  the  last  half  hour  of 
our  journey. 

What  a  half  hour  that  was !  Sir  Michael  was 
at  his  best  and  greatest.  He  leaned  back  in  the 
corner  seat  opposite,  his  hands  quite  still,  his  eyes 
visionary,  his  face  (that  Eve  of  Sodoma)  tender 
and  Celtic,  while  he  talked  of  love.  He  spoke, 
with  a  thousand  woodnotes  in  that  magic  voice, 
of  the  love  of  the  earth  for  the  green  things  she 
nourishes,  of  the  love  of  the  sea  for  the  lives  she 
feeds,  of  the  love  that  solves,  though  he  did  not 
say  how,  the  riddle  of  the  individual. 

Then,  near  Ipswich,  there  was  a  sparkling 
change,  a  sudden  declamation  on  the  love  of  Paris 
for  him,  her  greatest  lover,  ending  in  a  laughing 
"jarniprisme!"  as  we  rolled  into  the  station. 

We  descended  merrily,  found  a  carriage  and 
125 


GLAMOURIE 

drove  off  to  Mother  Mag's.  I  think  of  that  drive 
now  with  a  touch  of  sadness,  knowing  that  as  we 
passed  through  the  quaint  old  town  something 
was  then  happening  that  would  jar  our  lives  apart 
for  many  a  day. 


IX 

FIRELIGHT 

"LET  the  cab  wait  for  you,  Jack,"  said  Sir 
Michael  as  we  alighted  in  front  of  a  neat,  ivy- 
covered  little  cottage.  "No ;  don't  knock.  Mother 
Mag  ordains  that  her  friends  shall  enter  at  will. 
So" — he  raised  the  latch  silently — "now  come 
softly.  I  want  to  surprise  her." 

We  entered  a  tiny  hall,  at  the  farther  end  of 
which  was  the  open  door  of  a  large  room  lighted 
by  the  dancing  glow  of  a  wood  fire,  a  grateful 
sight  on  that  chilly  spring  evening.  I  caught  the 
glint  of  brass  and  pewter  on  the  walls  and  made 
a  rapid  guess  that  this  was  Mother  Mag's  kitchen 
and  that  Sir  Michael  was  very  good  to  his  old 
nurse. 

Very  silently  we  advanced  and  looked  into  the 
room.  There  in  front  of  the  fire  sat  a  little  old 
woman  dressed  in  black,  with  a  white  starched 
cap,  telling  the  shining  beads  of  a  huge,  golden 
rosary.  Sir  Michael  watched  her,  smiling;  and  I 
127 


GLAMOURIE 

saw,  as  the  red  firelight  touched  his  face,  some- 
thing like  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Presently  the  old  woman  hung  her  beads  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair  and  spoke  in  a  soft,  high  Irish 
voice. 

"Glory  be  to  God !"  said  she.  "There's  the  last 
Pater  done  and  the  last  Ave ;  and  it's  a  bad  Cath- 
olic ye  are,  me  Michael-boy,  to  hide  in  the  hall 
and  laugh  at  your  old  Mother  Mag." 

Sir  Michael  chuckled.  He  had  evidently  ex- 
pected this  reproof. 

"Ah,  I  never  can  surprise  you,  dear  Mother 
Mag,"  he  said  as  he  kissed  the  old  lady.  "This," 
he  continued,  "is  my  friend  Mr.  Dwight,  who 
comes  from  America.  And  this,  Jack,  is  Mrs. 
Margaret  O'Connor,  of  whom  you  never  heard  me 
speak  until  yesterday." 

"And  why  have  ye  hidden  me,  bad  Michael-boy, 
from  your  best  friend?" 

"Because  I  am  a  naughty  jackdaw,  Mother 
Mag,  and  I  like  to  hide  my  brightest  treasures 
from  everybody." 

"And,"  I  said,  "he  has  made  it  up  by  talking  of 
nothing  but  you,  Mrs.  O'Connor,  for  the  last 
twenty-four  hours." 

"Arrah,  call  me  Mother  Mag,  Mr.  Dwight. 
And  I  will  have  been  hearing  of  you  too;  for 

123 


FIRELIGHT 

Miss  Golden  was  reading  me  a  letter  of  yours, 
all  about  this  Michael-boy." 

"Ha,  Jack,  you  are  fairly  caught!  What  did 
he  say  about  me,  Mother  Mag?" 

"Nothing  good,  me  Michael-darling;  for 
Golden  and  I  wept  as  she  read  it.  Maybe  that  is 
why  she  put  wild  weeds  in  your  little  room." 

"Weeds?" 

"Yes,  Michael-boy;  heather  weeds  and  such. 
And  she'd  have  none  of  my  pretty  posies." 

"So  you  told  her  I  was  coming?" 

"I  did  that" 

"Mother  Mag,"  said  Sir  Michael,  looking  very 
fierce  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  assumed  fury,  "is 
my  porridge  ready?" 

"Sure  it  is.  And  there" — pointing  at  the  table 
— "is  your  own  fine  blue  bowl  and  your  pretty 
silver  mug.  I'll  give  ye  plum  jam  on  your  bread 
and  butter  if  ye  eat  your  porridge  like  a  good  boy, 
Michael-dear." 

Seeing  in  this  a  hint  for  my  departure  I  took 
my  leave,  so  that  Sir  Michael  might  enjoy  his 
supper  and  "consult  Mother  Mag"  undisturbed. 

"Come  back  after  dinner,"  he  said,  "and  we'll 
sit  in  the  firelight  and  talk." 

So  I  went  out  to  the  waiting  cab  and  drove  to 
the  old  White  Horse  Inn. 
129 


GLAMOURIE 

Lingering  over  my  dinner,  to  give  Sir  Michael 
time,  and  getting  rather  lost  on  my  way  to  Mother 
Mag's,  I  did  not  reach  her  cottage  till  nearly  nine. 
Lifting  the  latch,  I  went  in  and  back  to  the  still 
open  door  of  the  kitchen.  There  was  no  light  in 
the  room  except  the  red  wavering  firelight.  Sir 
Michael  was  seated  in  a  low  chair  in  the  centre  of 
the  hearth,  Mother  Mag  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other,  nimbused  by  the  warm  glow,  a  slender  girl 
that  I  knew,  with  a  certain  stir  of  the  heart,  to  be 
Golden  Burke. 

"Dwight,"  said  Sir  Michael  in  a  tone  of  whim- 
sical trouble,  "constant  association  with  you  and 
Prism  has  blunted  my  social  perceptions.  I  can- 
not devise  a  polite  formula  for  presenting  you  to 
Miss  Burke,  my  cousin  and  your  correspondent." 

Golden  and  I  shook  hands,  smiling.  And  in 
that  handclasp  I  discovered  for  the  first  time — 
yes,  for  the  first  time — that  there  are  hands  and 
hands!  In  some  you  feel  the  hidden  skeleton,  a 
bony  suggestion  of  the  charnel ;  in  some  the  clutch 
of  the  ancestral  ape,  a  reminiscence  of  prehistoric 
tree-clingings ;  while  in  some — no,  in  one! — you 
touch  the  Ideal  that  sculptors  have  sought  in  vain, 
and  for  a  flashing  moment  you  clasp  the  unclasp- 
able. 

What  has  the  discovery  to  do  with  the  story  of 
130 


FIRELIGHT 

Sir  Michael  ?  It  serves  this  purpose — to  show  the 
mood  that  coloured  the  recording  mind  of  his  bi- 
ographer during  the  rest  of  that  evening ! 

That  handclasp,  indeed,  agitated  me  a  little; 
and,  to  hide  my  embarrassment,  I  turned  to 
Mother  Mag  and  asked  her  whether  Sir  Michael 
had  behaved  well  at  supper. 

"Indade  and  he  did  not,"  she  answered.  "He 
said  he  had  come  all  the  way  from  Paris  to  consult 
my  common-sinse,  as  he  called  it ;  and  all  the  time 
he  was  eating  his  porridge  he  asked  me  foolish 
questions.  He  very  nearly  got  no  jam,  the  bad 
boy." 

And  she  smiled  lovingly  on  her  foster-son. 

"Ah,  Mother  Mag,"  said  he,  "we  can't  all  be 
wise.  Lucky  we  can't! — for  you  know  that  the 
feathers  on  the  angels'  wings  are  made  out  of  the 
silly  things  they  did  on  earth." 

"Arrah,  go  'long  with  ye!" 

"It's  as  true  as  two  bibles,  Mother  Mag.  Every 
jolly  word,  every  merry  laugh,  every  boyish,  girl- 
ish, foolish  freak  and  whimsey,  is  turned  into  a 
bright  little  wing- feather  for  the  happy  little  angel 
that  did  the  foolish  little  thing.  That's  the  reason 
why  so  many  of  the  angels  are  Irish !" 

"Then,  Cousin  Michael,"  said  Golden,  looking 
at  him  affectionately,  "you  will  have  a  huge  pair 


GLAMOURIE 

of  pinions  some  day  to  flutter  about  with  in  the 
heather." 

Some  note  in  her  voice,  some  vibration  in  the 
simple  words,  brought  back  to  me  Sir  Michael's 
phrase,  "Her  soul  is  questing — questing! — 
Wings!  Dwight,  Wings!" 

"Perhaps,  Golden,"  said  he,  laughing,  in  answer 
to  her  comment;  "but  you  are  getting  personal 
and  I  change  the  subject.  Dwight,  what  do  you 
think  we  were  talking  about  when  you  came  in  ?" 

"You  were  talking  of  Paris,"  I  conjectured; 
"and  you  were  alarming  Miss  Burke  and  Mother 
Mag  with  violent  jarniprismes" 

"Wrong !  No  jarniprisme  has  passed  my  lips ; 
and  as  for  Paris " 

"Mr.  Dwight,"  interrupted  Golden,  speaking 
for  the  first  time  to  me,  "what  is  a  jarniprisme ?" 

"Wait,  Jack,"  said  Sir  Michael  solemnly,  "till 
later  on,  when  you  escort  my  cousin  home.  Such 
a  tale  is  not  for  the  peaceful  fireside.  It  must  be 
told  under  the  black  vault  of  night  and  the  shud- 
dering stars." 

"It  shall  be  so  told,  Miss  Burke,"  said  I.  "But 
Paris,  Sir  Michael — you  did  talk  of  Paris?" 

"Only  under  the  persistent  questioning  of  my 
cousin.  Fancy,  Jack !  she  wants  to  come  to  Paris 
to  study  art.  Art  indeed!  As  if  in  Paris  one 
132 


FIRELIGHT 

could  study  anything  but  Paris  herself!  How, 
my  golden  cousin,  could  you  paint  in  Paris  ?  Why, 
if  I  should  put  you  on  the  Quai  d' Orleans" — that 
was  the  scene  of  his  vigils! — "with  a  canvas  on 
your  easel  and  your  palette  made  up,  your  violet 
eyes  would  be  so  full  of  happy  tears  that  you 
couldn't  smudge  a  single  smudge." 

"No,  Jack,"  continued  Sir  Michael,  his  voice 
full  of  plaintive,  childish  reproach ;  "I  tried,  with 
exquisite  social  tact,  to  deflect  the  conversation  to 
anything  but  Paris.  This  aureate  maid  baffled 
all  my  efforts.  I  asked  about  the  Suffolk  Agri- 
cultural Show.  She  answered  with  Louvre  and 
Luxembourg.  I  introduced  the  Chapel  Bazaar  at 
Stoke  Green.  She  evaded  with  the  Millet  monu- 
ment at  Barbizon.  I  offered  the  All  Saints' 
Church  Bazaar  in  the  Lecture  Hall,  Ipswich.  She 
wandered  off  to  the  ponds  at  Ville  d'Avray  and 
Corot. 

"I  touched" — his  voice  trembled  pathetically — 
"on  the  Doll  Show,  the  Suffragettes,  the  Liberal 
Ladies  and  the  Primrose  Dames.  In  vain! — she 
babbled  Impressionism.  At  last,  in  despair,  I 
spoke  of  the  local  health  report  and  congratulated 
her  that  the  borough  death  rate  had  fallen  to  16.4 
per  1,000.  Jack,  so  far  from  showing  an  intelli- 
gent interest  in  all  this,  I  regret  to  say  that  she 

133 


GLAMOURIE 

was  about  to  box  my  ears,  when  your  entrance 
saved  me." 

"He  has  been  teasing  me  dreadfully,  Mr. 
Dwight,"  said  Golden. 

"Teasing  you,  Golden  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Why, 
I  prepared  this  conversation  expressly  to  please 
and  instruct  you.  All  the  way  from  Paris  to 
Amiens,  I  studied  'The  Ipswich  Observer  and 
Felixtowe  Times.'  All  the  way  from  Amiens  to 
Boulogne,  I  absorbed  The  Suffolk  Chronicle  and 
Mercury.'  I  am  well  prepared,  and  had  you  en- 
couraged me  by  a  cultured  curiosity,  I  was  ready 
to  expand,  to  overflow  parochial  limits,  to  talk  of 
Felixtowe,  of  Marks  Tey,  of  Saffron  Walden  (ob- 
serve, Jack,  the  English  charm  of  those  names!) 
of  Copdock,  of  Walsham-le- Willows,  of  all  the 
parishes  of  East  Anglia." 

Sir  Michael  paused  for  breath. 

I  have  often  thought  since,  in  considering  this 
conversation,  that  the  clue  to  Sir  Michael's  char- 
acter was  his  childlikeness ;  and  that  the  discovery 
that  will  make  his  name  beacon  through  all  future 
ages  was  made,  not  by  the  Thinker,  not  by  the 
Philosopher,  but  by  this  teasing,  persistent,  loving 
Child  who  played  with  words  in  the  firelight. 

"More  than  that,"  continued  the  absurd  man, 
seeming  to  warm  to  his  subject,  "I  intended  to 
134 


FIRELIGHT 

discourse  on  the  Oxford  Treble  Bob,  the  Wood- 
bine and  Kent  Treble  Bob,  the  College  Single,  the 
Plain  Bob,  the  Grandsire  Doubles,  the  Double 
Norwich  Court  Bob  Major,  the  Stedman  Triples, 
the  City  Delight,  and  the  Superlative  Surprise 
Major!" 

No  exclamation  point  can  indicate  his  empha- 
sis on  the  "Superlative  Surprise  Major." 

"Your  ears  are  in  great  danger,  Cousin  Mi- 
chael," said  Golden  warningly. 

"Pray  spare  him  a  moment,  Miss  Burke.  I 
really  should  like  an  explanation  of  those  extraor- 
dinary names." 

"Ha!  an  intelligent  listener  at  last!"  exclaimed 
Sir  Michael  in  a  gloating  voice.  "Know  then, 
my  benighted  friend  from  New  England,  a  land 
of  godless  silence,  where  one  bell  in  one  steeple 
suffices  for  the  call  to  prayer,  know  that  here  in 
our  East  Anglia  peals  of  bells  hang  in  our  towers 
and  that  to  ring  the  changes  on  these  bells  is  a 
constant  parochial  delight.  Listen  attentively! 
According  to  the  Laws  of  Permutation  (are  you 
listening,  Golden?)  there  are  five  thousand  and 
forty  ways  of  ringing  those  changes  on  seven 
bells. 

"Well,  Jack,  seven  ringers  get  together  and 
ring  those  5,040  changes.  (Wake  up,  Mother 
135 


GLAMOURIE 

Mag!)  And  the  time  it  takes  to  ring  them  all  is 
a  matter  of  local  pride" — at  this  point  I  saw  Sir 
Michael  slyly  consult  a  memorandum — "Pelham 
Market  will  ring  you  Stedman  Triples  in  two 
hours  and  fifty  minutes;  Thomham  Magna,  a 
Treble  Bob  Minor  in  2:33;  Wickham  Skeith,  a 
Minor  in  2 136 ;  while  St.  Mary-le-Tower  of  this 
proud  city  leads  them  all !" 

"I  like  that  competition,  Sir  Michael." 

"So  do  I,"  said  he.  "The  normal  Englishman 
must  sweat !  If  he  doesn't,  he  is  a  lost  man.  The 
Frenchman  thinks,  plays  and  talks;  the  English- 
man sweats,  sweats  and  continues  to  sweat. 
There's  the  true  national  destinction !" 

And  Sir  Michael  was  himself  again. 

"But,"  he  continued  with  a  note  of  pity  in  his 
voice,  "let  him  ring  his  perspiring  bobs,  poor  fel- 
low, while  yet  he  may.  He  will  ring  other  changes 
soon.  For  the  air  is  full  of  wings ;  and  the  sacred 
Channel  is  dry;  and  the  sacred  Dreadnought  is  a 
pannikin ;  and  our  bell-ringer,  in  the  universal  con- 
scription, will  sweat  to  sterner  ends.  But,"  he 
added,  smiling,  "this,  like  jarniprisme,  is  no  talk 
for  the  peaceful  fireside." 

"Then,  Cousin  Michael,"  said  Golden  coax- 
ingly,  "talk  of  Paris.  You  do  want  me  to  come 
there,  don't  you?" 

136 


FIRELIGHT 

"Of  course  I  do,"  he  answered;  "and  so  does 
Paris." 

"Paris,"  she  murmured  dreamingly,  "what  shall 
I  find  in  Paris?" 

"You  will  find  yourself  in  Paris,"  answered  Sir 
Michael.  "There  the  soul  first  looks  into  its  own 
eyes." 

"Go  on,  Cousin  Michael,  talk  of  Paris." 

His  face  glowed  with  thought  for  an  instant, 
and  I  hoped  for  one  of  his  flashes  of  fiery  talk. 
But  the  glow  faded  and  he  answered  quietly : 

"No,  Golden;  the  night  is  too  short.  But  I'll 
tell  you  one  subtle  little  fact  about  her  that  I  have 
almost  succeeded  in  phrasing." 

"Tell!" 

"Paris,"  said  he,  speaking  slowly  and  search- 
ing his  words,  "Paris  is  forever  haloed  by  the 
advancing  fringe  of  its  own  anticipated  mem- 
ory." 

"I  am  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said 
Golden,  looking  puzzled. 

"I  will  explain.  Look  back  on  your  own  past ! 
— you  see  it  through  a  haze  of  memory.  Events 
and  places,  even  crude  and  unlovely  ones,  have  a 
beauty  and  mystery  of  distance.  Now  in  Paris 
this  haze  of  memory  runs  on  ahead  of  itself 
(rather  Irish,  that!)  and  you  live  in  Paris  as  if  the 
10  137 


GLAMOURIE 

future  were  the  present  and  you  were  looking 
back  on  the  dear,  dead  Parisian  days." 

Golden  shook  her  beautiful  head. 

"I  will  try  again,"  said  he  patiently.  "We  live 
among  adjectives.  Friends  are  adjectives.  Cities 
are  adjectives.  Life  slides  on ;  the  friends  die ;  we 
seek  new  cities.  And  then,  for  the  first  time,  we 
see  the  Noun,  the  real  friend,  the  real  city,  free 
of  its  adjectives.  Now  in  Paris  we  feel  the  Noun, 
living,  quivering  under  its  adjectives.  Yes ;  under 
its  beauty,  its  commerce,  its  play,  we  feel  and  live 
the  Noun  of  Paris." 

Golden's  brow  was  wrinkled  with  her  intense 
effort  to  understand. 

Sir  Michael  saw  this  and  continued,  looking 
rather  worried  over  his  lack  of  perspicuity. 

"Paris  lives  before  the  eyes  as  the  picture  he 
means  to  paint  glows  in  the  mind  of  the  artist, 
as  the  symphony  he  means  to  write  sings  in  the 
mind  of  the  musician.  The  picture  can't  be 
painted ;  the  symphony  can't  be  written ;  but  Paris 
lives! — lives  as  if  a  master-craftsman  had  there 
realised  a  master-dream!" 

Still  nothing  but  utter  bewilderment  on  the  girl's 
serious  face. 

"Golden,"  said  Sir  Michael  suspiciously,  "this 
is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  known  you  to  be 
138 


FIRELIGHT 

stupid.  You  used  sympathetically  to  divine  my 
darkest  sayings.  What  does  it  mean?" 

The  puzzled  look  dropped  off  like  a  mask,  leav- 
ing only  a  witching  roguery. 

"It  means,  dear  Cousin  Michael,  that  I  under- 
stood you  at  first.  I  only  wanted  to  see  if  on  a 
single  bell  I  could  ring  the  Superlative  Surprise 
Major." 

Mother  Mag  and  I  joined  in  a  hearty  laugh  at 
Sir  Michael's  expense. 

"Golden,"  said  he,  when  he  had  recovered  and 
we  were  quiet  again,  "you  shall  come  to  Paris! 
Only  the  latent  Parisienne  in  you  could  have  de- 
vised a  blague  like  that." 

"It  wasn't  the  latent  Paris  girl,  Cousin  Michael, 
but  the  patent  Irish  girl.  Shall  we  exchange  for- 
givenesses ?" 

And  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"Granted,"  he  said,  touching  it.  "Let  there  be 
peace  between  us.  Peace!" — he  sighed  and  his 
voice  deepened  and  quivered — "to-night,  the  peace 
of  the  fireside,  the  warmth  of  home — to-mor- 
row— "  he  made  the  vague  clutching  gesture  over 
his  head  that  I  had  seen  before — "to-morrow — 
Paris!" 

"Ah,  bide  a  while,  me  Michael-boy!"  said 
Mother  Mag. 

139 


GLAMOURIE 

"No,  dear  Mother  Mag;  my  lady  on  the  Seine 
is  tugging  at  my  heart-strings  and  whispering 
strange  magics." 

He  slipped  down  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the 
hearth  and  leaned  his  golden  head  against  his  old 
nurse's  knee. 

"And  your  Michael-boy,"  he  continued,  "must 
go  back  to  the  sorceress  to-morrow.  But  to-night 
he  is  a  little  child,  Mother  Mag;  and  your  firelight 
feels  good  to  the  child.  Let  him  bask  and  dream, 
forgetting  that  he  will  be  a  man,  netted  in  magics, 
to-morrow.  And  sing  to  him,  golden  cousin ;  sing 
a  crooning  song  to  the  tired  little  lad  that  basks 
in  the  glow  of  the  hearth." 

"What  shall  I  sing  to  the  laddie?"  asked 
Golden  softly. 

"Some  song  of  the  heather  that  will  blend  with 
his  dreams." 

Golden  crossed  the  room  and  took  from  a  table 
a  harp,  the  "little  Irish  harp"  with  which  Sir  Mi- 
chael had  touched  my  imagination  months  be- 
fore. 

"I  shall  croon  him,"  she  said,  "a  song  called 
Cupid's  Dream,  that  was  written  years  ago  by 
one  Sir  Michael  Burke.  He  told  me,"  she  contin- 
ued, turning  to  me,  "that  the  verses  came  to  him 
on  a  lonely,  pine-covered  little  hill  of  the  Annon- 
140 


FIRELIGHT 

ciade,  back  of  Menton.  He  was  a  boy  then,  about 
twenty " 

"And  dreamed  of  Apollo  and  laurels,"  inter- 
rupted Sir  Michael.  "But  he  soon  learned  that 
the  only  thing  worth  saying"  must  be  done  before 
it  can  be  said.  Sing,  Golden!" 

I  drew  my  chair  back  from  the  circle  round  the 
hearth,  so  that  I  could  see  the  whole  picture.  Sir 
Michael,  looking  extraordinarily  small  and  child- 
like, now  lay  curled  on  the  rug,  his  head  propped 
on  his  hand,  while  Mother  Mag,  playing  with  her 
great  golden  rosary,  looked  tenderly  down  on  him. 
The  singer,  her  harp  against  her  shoulder,  sat  on 
a  low  stool,  gazing  into  the  fire,  now  red  embers 
with  here  and  there  a  leaping  tongue  of  flame. 
The  glow  and  flicker  touched  genially  all  that  was 
kin  to  it  in  warmth  and  colour.  Touched  Sir  Mi- 
chael's blond  head  and  the  mellow  brasses  on  the 
walls.  Touched  the  gold  beads  of  the  great  rosary 
and  the  gilt  frame  of  the  harp.  Touched,  lov- 
ingly I  thought,  the  spray  of  red  heather  in  the 
girl's  white  dress  and  her  red-gold  hair,  and 
played  amid  its  web  and  tangle.  A  glowing  pic- 
ture it  was.  I  can  always  warm  my  heart  in  its 
memory. 

Golden  struck  a  few  minor  chords  and  began. 
The  song  was  almost  a  monotone,  getting  its  col- 
141 


our  from  the  emotions  that  vibrated  in  the  pure, 
young  voice.    This  was  what  she  sang: 

I  slept  in  the  shade  of  a  mountain  pine; 

And  it  lured  my  soul  from  me 
Till  the  god  and  the  glow  in  this  body  of  mine 

Were  a-thrill  in  the  life  of  the  tree — 
Till  the  god  and  the  fire  of  the  world's  desire 

Were  meshed  in  the  branches  streaming 
And  prisoned  apart  in  the  great  tree's  heart," 

Said  Love  in  the  shadow,  dreaming. 

"Sing  and  swing  in  the  heather-wind ! 

Crash  and  lash  in  the  mistral-blast ! 
O  god  that  suffered,  O  god  that  sinned, 

You  are  shriven  and  pure  at  last — 
Lord  alone  of  the  ripening  cone, 

Tender  and  brown  and  teeming, 
You  scatter  and  hold  the  pollen-gold," 

Said  Love  in  the  shadow,  dreaming. 

"Grow  and  glow  in  the  clasping  sun ! 

Drowse  and  dream  as  the  valleys  fade! — 
O  Light !  O  Love ! — not  twain  but  one 

In  the  balm  of  the  scented  shade; 
Not  twain  but  one  when  the  dream  is  done 

And  I  rise  on  pinions  gleaming 
To  the  higher  Height  and  the  larger  Light," 

Said  Love  in  the  shadow,  dreaming. 
142 


FIRELIGHT 

"I  am  nourished  by  Earth  as  a  thing  divine, 

And  her  mother-might  is  streaming 
All  a-thrill  through  my  soul  in  the  great,  green 
pine," 

Said  Love  in  the  shadow,  dreaming. 
"But  at  last  I  shall  wake  for  my  kingdom's  sake, 

And  reign  for  the  world's  redeeming 
'In  the  glamour  and  gleam  of  the  Over-Dream," 

Said  Love  in  the  shadow,  dreaming. 

As  the  clear  voice  ceased,  Sir  Michael  sat  up 
on  the  rug  and  patted  himself  approvingly  on  the 
head. 

"Not  bad,  my  child,"  said  he,  "though  the  allit- 
eration is  rather  overworked.  Thank  you,  cousine 
d'or!  Mother  Mag,  what  did  you  think  of  your 
boy's  verses?" 

"Sure,  I'm  thinking  you  were  a  silly  little  god, 
my  Michael,  to  be  getting  your  wings  all  gummed 
and  stuck  with  pine-pitch." 

When  we  had  laughed  at  this  paraphrase,  Sir 
Michael  turned  to  me. 

"And  you,  Jack,  what  is  your  opinion?  "Why, 
man,  you  are  looking  sleepy!  Wake  him  up, 
Golden,  with  'Lilli  Burlero'  or  the  'Wearing  o'  the 
Green.'  " 

"No;  pray  don't,"  I  begged.  "Let  this  scene, 
143 


GLAMOURIE 

with  the  song  and  singer,  the  child  Michael  and 
Mother  Mag,  rest  in  our  memories  just  as  it  is 
*'in  the  glamour  and  gleam  of  the  Over-Dream.' ' 

"Thank  you  for  my  share  in  that  compliment, 
Jack,"  said  Sir  Michael.  "It  is  the  prettiest 
speech  I've  ever  heard  you  make." 

Golden  rose  to  go,  setting  a  white  tam-o-shanter 
on  her  shining  hair. 

"You  will  see  my  cousin  home,  won't  you, 
Jack  ?  The  distance  is  much  too  great  for  a  very 
tired  child.  And  meet  me  at  the  station  at  8 148 
to-morrow  morning.  You  will  let  me  know, 
Golden,  when  we  shall  meet  you  at  the  Gare  du 
Nord." 

So,  when  our  good-byes  were  said,  in  blunt 
English  fashion,  Golden  and  I  fared  forth  into 
the  starlight. 


X 

STARLIGHT 

THOSE  English  stars ! — no  astronomic  hints  of 
space  and  time  came  down  from  them.  Frank, 
homely  lights  set  in  the  island  heaven,  crisp,  white 
and  glittering,  they  hung  over  us  as  we  walked, 
lamping  us  cheerily  through  the  night.  They 
watched  us  from  everywhere;  from  the  sky,  so 
near  the  treetops;  from  the  twigs  of  the  oaks; 
from  the  gaps  in  the  hedgerows  and  the  dew  on 
the  grass.  They  watched  as  if  they  had  been  cre- 
ated for  this  end  alone  and  had  been  waiting  for 
Golden  and  me  all  the  evening  at  Mother  Mag's 
doorstep. 

That  English  starlight !  It  dominated  my  fancy 
so  that  I  felt  it  vibrating  in  the  touch  of  the  girl's 
hand  on  my  arm,  and  quivering,  crystal  clear, 
through  our  first  talk  together.  And  whenever, 
as  we  spoke,  some  word  or  phrase  suggested  light 
or  motion,  there  was  a  new  twinkle  of  friendliness 
in  that  English  starlight. 


GLAMOURIE 

We  talked,  of  course,  of  Sir  Michael ;  and  I  ex- 
plained the  mystery  of  jarniprisme. 

"Jarniprisme!"  she  exclaimed,  laughing, 
and  the  starlight  rippled  through  the  word. 
"I  shall  adopt  it  too.  Poor  Prism!  Has 
Cousin  Michael  ever  told  you  his  history,  Mr. 
Dwight?" 

"No;  except  that  you  named  him." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you,  just  as  Cousin  Michael  told 
me.  He  was  suffering  one  day  in  London — he  has 
always  suffered,  poor  fellow — and  went  to  consult 
a  famous  surgeon.  It  was  past  the  hour  for  con- 
sultations, but  Cousin  Michael  sent  in  his  card 
and  was  shown  into  the  great  man's  laboratory. 
He  was  there,  a  big,  muscular  creature,  in  his 
surgical  apron,  bending  over  something  on  his 
table. 

"  'I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  you,'  Cousin  Michael 
began,  stopping  when  he  saw  what  the  surgeon 
was  working  over. 

"  'What  are  you  doing  to  that  cat  ?'  he  asked. 

"  'I  am  about  to  repeat  a  rather  commonplace 
experiment,'  answered  the  surgeon,  'dislocate 
various  joints  and  chart  the  resulting  variations 
in  temperature,  respiration  and  so  on.' 

"  'Anaesthetics  ?'  asked  Cousin  Michael. 

"  'Oh,  no,'  said  the  surgeon. 
146 


STARLIGHT 

"Cousin  Michael  seized  a  scalpel  that  lay  near 
and  turned  to  the  surgeon. 

"  'Sir/  said  he,  'I,  too,  am  about  to  try  an  ex- 
periment, not  commonplace,  but  unique  in  the  his- 
tory of  science.  I  am  about' — he  brandished  the 
knife — 'to  release  this  beautiful  cat  and  take  it 
away  with  me.' 

"  'And  how  do  you  expect  to  manage  that,  my 
little  man,  while  I  am  here  ?'  inquired  the  surgeon 
sarcastically. 

"  'Ah,  Mr.  Surgeon,'  said  Cousin  Michael, 
'that  brings  me  to  the  alternative  phase  of  my 
plan.  It  will  interest  you  keenly  as  a  man  of 
science.  If,  by  ill-judged  interference,  you  spoil 
the  first  part  of  my  experiment,  then' — and  he 
brandished  the  knife  again  without  finishing  his 
sentence. 

"Can't  you  see  Cousin  Michael's  eyes  flash  as 
he  said  that,  Mr.  Dwight?" 

Indeed  I  could.  The  starlight  was  glinting 
there,  and  in  Prism's  wild,  frightened  eyes  and 
on  the  gleaming  scalpel. 

"The  surgeon,"  continued  Miss  Golden, 
"laughed  sardonically  and  crossed  the  room  to 
the  bell. 

"'Ring!'  said  Cousin  Michael,  throwing  away 
the  knife  and  walking  up  to  the  surgeon,  'ring! 
147 


GLAMOURIE 

and  then  look  into  my  eyes  if  you  dare !  So !  look 
into  my  eyes,  deep,  deep !  What  do  you  see  there, 
Mr.  Surgeon?' 

"  'Madness,'  he  answered,  but  his  eyes  began  to 
waver  and  glaze. 

"  'No,'  said  my  cousin ;  'not  madness,  but  the 
will  of  Michael  Burke !  Listen,  man !  I  lay  that 
will  on  the  mind  behind  your  shrinking  eyes !  I 
dominate  your  poor,  fluttering  soul!  I  master 
you ;  and  you  cower,  a  slave,  before  the  kingship 
of  my  volition.  You  are  mine,  my  chattel,  my 
thing!  Thing,  do  my  bidding!' 

"The  footman  opened  the  door. 

"The  surgeon  stared  blankly  at  the  man  for  a 
moment  and  then  spoke. 

"  'Unstrap  that  beautiful  cat,'  he  said,  'and  be 
careful  not  to  hurt  it.  Then  put  it  in  a  basket 
and  carry  it  round  to  this  gentleman's  chambers 
when  he  goes.' 

"When  the  footman  had  left  the  room  with  the 
cat  the  surgeon  turned  to  Cousin  Michael. 

"  'No;  you  do  not  interrupt  me,'  he  said  courte- 
ously, referring  to  Cousin  Michael's  first  words. 
'I  have  nothing  to  do.  Tell  me  your  troubles.  I 
trust  I  may  be  of  service.' 

"He  examined  Cousin  Michael  carefully,  sug- 
gested some  helpful  measures,  and  showed  no 
148 


STARLIGHT 

memory  then,  or  in  later  consultations,  of  the 
episode  of  Master  Prism." 

I  have  recorded  Golden's  story  here,  just  as  she 
told  it  to  me;  for  it  had  a  curious  echo,  some 
weeks  later,  on  the  Quai  Voltaire. 

"Remarkable!"  I  commented,  as  she  finished; 
"yet  one  phrase  explains  it  all." 

"What  is  that,  Mr.  Dwight?" 

"The  will  of  Michael  Burke,"  I  answered. 

"Cousin  Michael  insists,"  said  Golden,  "that  it 
was  not  his  will  alone,  but  his  love,  his  great,  pity- 
ing love  for  the  doomed,  bound  creature,  that 
ruled  the  surgeon.  He  says  that  he  willed  his 
love,  or  loved  his  will,  into  the  other's  mind." 

"Perhaps,"  I  assented;  "yet  he  is  all  compact  of 
will,  of  chivalric  will,  our  Sir  Michael.  He  is  a 
knight  of  the  heather." 

"I  like  that,"  she  said.  "But  how  few  under- 
stand him.  Mother  Mag  and  you  and  I.  No  one 
else,  I  think.  To  the  rest  of  the  world  he  is  the 
mad  little  hunchback." 

"His  brother?—"  Tasked. 

"His  brother — "  she  repeated,  hesitating.  "No ; 
it  is  not  fair  to  the  beautiful  starlight  to  talk  of 
him.  Let  us  talk  of  Paris.  Tell  me  how  these 
stars  look  from  there." 

"To  us  who  winter  in  Paris,"  I  answered,  "she 
149 


GLAMOURIE 

-is  a  city  of  bronillards,  of  ghostly  mists.  But 
when,  at  the  close  of  a  grey  day,  the  stars  come 
out,  they  shine  through  the  red  glare  over  the  city 
very,  very  far  away.  Here  they  hang  on  the  trees 
like  bright  chestnut  burrs." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  laughing,  "we  permit  nothing 
in  our  island  that  suggests  vague  spaces  where 
the  soul  might  try  its  wings.  And  the  wings  them- 
selves are  clipped  in  babyhood,  Mr.  Dwight." 

"And  so  the  Lord,"  I  asked  naughtily,  "tempers 
the  stars  to  the  clipped  Englishman  ?" 

"Tempers  everything,"  she  answered;  "this  is 
the  Land  of  Reservations.  Look  at  its  painting, 
its  sculpture!  Island-bred  critics  praise  its  re- 
serve, the  symbol  of  great  thoughts  unexpressed ; 
but  one  soon  learns  that  the  reserve  is  a  sham  and 
has  nothing  behind  it.  That  is  why  I  want  Paris, 
Mr.  Dwight.  I  want  my  wings  to  grow  again, 
if  they  can." 

"I  heard,"  said  I,  "a  pretty  definition  of  France 
in  a  play  recently.  Some  one  asks  the  hero,  an 
Alsatian,  'La  France,  alors,  pour  toi,  qu'est-ce  que 
c'estf  And  he  answers,  (Le  pays  ou  I' on  trouve  ce 
qui  m'a  manque' '' 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  repeating  the  phrase 
twice  or  thrice;  "France  is  the  country  where  one 
finds  what  one  lacked.  That  was  the  word  I 
150 


STARLIGHT 

wanted.  So  much  is  manque  here.  If  I  had 
been  an  English  girl,  it  wouldn't  have  mattered, 
for  I  shouldn't  have  known.  My  wing  stumps 
would  have  been  demurely  hidden.  But  here  is 
my  house  and  Miss  Warboy's  light  is  shining  for 
me.  Thank  you  for  taking  care  of  me,  Mr. 
Dwight.  I  shall  always  remember  that  definition 
of  France." 

"I  wonder,"  I  remarked,  for  I  saw  in  the  lamp- 
light the  spray  of  heather  that  she  wore,  "I  won- 
der that  the  symbolic  heather  is  permitted  to  grow 
here." 

"Hush,"  she  whispered,  "England  does  not  un- 
derstand the  symbolism.  If  it  did  it  would  send 
forth  an  army  of  little  curates  to  root  it  up  and 
plant  garden  flowers  in  its  place." 

So  we  shook  hands  and  parted.  And  I  wan- 
dered back  to  my  hotel,  attended  by  clusters  of 
spying  island  stars. 

That  night,  as  I  slept  in  the  White  Horse  Inn, 
I  had  a  strange  dream.  I  was  sitting  in  a  Suffolk 
lane  in  a  slowly  fading  twilight.  In  my  hand  I 
held  a  spray  of  red  heather,  hung  with  stars  like 
dewdrops,  which  seemed,  though  I  knew  not  why, 
to  be  mysteriously  and  sacredly  beautiful. 

"It  is  a  gift  from  heaven,"  I  thought,  and  looked 
up  at  the  faintly  gleaming  sky. 


GLAMOURIE 

There,  high  over  the  shadowy  fields,  hung  the 
ghost  of  a  city,  a  mirage  of  pearly  domes  and  sil- 
ver spires  and  trailing  vapours. 

"That  is  the  Over-Dream,"  I  whispered  to  my- 
self, "ou  I' on  trouve  ce  qni  m'a  manque."  And 
as  I  said  this  I  became  aware  by  a  flash  of  con- 
vincing logic  that  unless  my  sacred  heather  were 
speedily  taken  up  to  that  city,  it  would  wither  and 
suffer  a  hideous  change. 

"I  must  try  to  fly  up  there  with  my  heather,"  I 
thought,  and  pulled  my  great,  white  wings  for- 
ward over  my  knees  that  I  might  preen  them  for 
the  distant  flight. 

At  this  moment  six  little  men  came  chattering 
down  the  lane.  As  they  saw  me  they  gave  a  shrill 
little  shriek  in  unison  and  gathered  round  me  in 
a  half  circle,  pointing  at  my  great  wings.  They 
were  dressed  in  black,  the  little  men,  precisely 
alike,  with  clerical  waistcoats  and  collars  and  flat, 
broad  hats.  And  each  had  a  huge  pair  of  shears 
hanging  at  his  side,  like  a  sword.  And  they  stood 
there  silently,  pointing  at  my  wings,  and  looking 
at  each  other  with  shocked  surprise. 

Their  attitude  annoyed  me,  and  I  spoke. 

"Gentlemen,"  I  said  courteously,  "I  am  Sir 
John  Dwight,  a  knight  of  the  heather." 

And  I  waited,  expecting  them  to  introduce 
152 


STARLIGHT 

themselves ;  but  they  only  continued  to  point  with 
many  signs  of  growing  disapproval. 

"Gentlemen,"  I  said,  becoming  irritated,  "since 
you  will  not  answer,  I  shall  proceed  to  discover 
your  identity  by  the  logical  process  called  elimina- 
tion. You  are  not  unicorns,  for  unicorns  have 
four  legs  and  you  have  two.  You  are  not  phoe- 
nixes, for  phoenixes  have  wings  and  you  have  not. 
Hence  you  are  curates !  Do  you  detect  any  flaw 
in  my  reasoning,  curates?" 

And  I  paused,  well  pleased  with  the  nicety  and 
vigour  of  my  logic. 

The  six  little  curates,  however,  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  what  I  said,  but  with  their  eyes  fixed  on 
my  wings  suddenly  remarked  in  chorus, 

"What  a  deplorable  lack  of  reserve!" 

Now  I  am  a  strong,  big  man;  and  up  to  this 
moment  I  had  felt  no  fear  of  the  six  little  curates. 
But  there  was  a  magic  spell  in  those  fatal  words. 
They  paralysed  my  manhood.  I  fell  back  under 
the  hedge,  perfectly  conscious  but  tranced  and 
helpless. 

"Of  course  they  must  be  clipped,"  said  one 
curate. 

"And  jolly  short  too!"  said  another. 

"I  have  an  extra  large  pillow-case,"  casually  re- 
marked a  third. 

ii  153 


GLAMOURIE 

"Come!  let's  get  it  over,"  exclaimed  a  fourth. 
"Your  turn  to  say  grace,  Ernest." 

And  with  this,  after  Ernest  had  said  something 
unpleasantly  like  a  grace  before  meat,  they  set  to 
work  on  my  poor  wings. 

They  were  masters  of  their  craft,  those  six 
little  curates!  Two  of  them  held  out  my  beau- 
tiful wings,  two  clipped  with  their  great  shears, 
and  the  two  others  stuffed  my  shorn  plumes 
into  a  giant  pillow-case.  In  five  minutes  the 
work  was  done;  and,  while  Ernest  was  inton- 
ing a  second  grace,  another  put  the  pillow  under 
my  head. 

"There !"  said  one,  as  they  gathered  again  into 
a  complacent  half  circle,  "he  looks  jolly  well  re- 
served now/' 

"When  he  wakes  from  sleeping  on  that  pillow," 
remarked  another,  "he  may  make  a  fairly  decent 
sort  of  chap." 

"Ah,"  said  Ernest  sententiously,  "for  perfect 
rest  there  is  nothing  like  a  pillow  made  of  the 
clippings  of  your  own  wings." 

"What  is  that  in  his  hand?"  asked  a  curate. 

"Just  a  bit  of  heather,"  was  the  answer.  "No 
harm  in  that.  I  suppose  he's  a  botanist,  the  silly 
ass." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  flash  of  shining 
154 


STARLIGHT 

wings,  a  rush  of  something  swooping  from  the 
sky,  and  a  beautiful,  vibrant  voice  shouted, 

"Jarniprisme!" 

"It  is  the  will  of  Sir  Michael  Burke,"  shrieked 
the  curates;  and  they  scampered  away  like  mice 
down  the  lane  and  across  the  fields. 

"My  poor  old  Jack,"  said  Sir  Michael,  lifting 
me  to  my  feet  and  kicking  the  pillow  into  the 
hedge.  "How  did  it  happen?" 

"It  was  my  deplorable  lack  of  reserve,  Sir  Mi- 
chael. I  am  sorry,  for  I  wanted  to  take  my 
heather  up  there,"  I  said  dejectedly,  pointing  to 
the  Over-Dream,  now  a  shadowy  silhouette 
against  the  wan  sky. 

"Why,  bless  my  soul,"  Sir  Michael  exclaimed, 
"of  course  it  must  be  taken  there !  I'll  do  it  at  once. 
Au  revoir!  You  won't  be  lonely.  My  dear  Golden 
is  coming  down  the  lane.  Take  good  care  of  her." 

He  took  my  heather,  picked  the  bright  stars 
from  it,  one  by  one,  and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 

And  with  mighty  strokes  of  his  glorious  wings 
he  mounted  toward  the  city. 

Just  then  Golden  came  sadly  down  the  lane. 

"So  those  curates  caught  you  too,  Sir  John! 
What  a  pity!     Look  at  my  wings,  that  were  so 
beautiful  last  night  as  we  walked  together  in  the 
starlight.     Where  is  Cousin  Michael?" 
155 


GLAMOURIE 

"He  has  taken  the  stars  from  my  sprig  of 
heather  and  flown  to  the  city  up  there." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Golden.  "You  know  he  is 
the  official  lamplighter.  He  will  light  the  city 
with  the  stars  and  then  they  will  ring  the  Super- 
lative Surprise  Major.  Let  us  watch  and  listen." 

So  we  stood  side  by  side  in  the  dusk  of  the  Suf- 
folk lane,  Golden  and  I,  with  our  faces  turned  up- 
ward watching  the  phantom  city.  And,  as  we 
watched,  the  lamps  of  the  city,  the  heather  stars, 
shone  out  one  by  one  with  a  wan,  spiritual  glim- 
mer. 

"The  glamour  and  gleam  of  the  Over-Dream," 
I  quoted  softly. 

"Listen,"  whispered  Golden. 

And  dropping,  dropping  from  very  far  away, 
came  the  pealing  bells  of  the  city,  silver  and  trem- 
ulous. 

"They  are  more  like  starlight  than  sound,"  I 
murmured  to  Golden,  "and  more  like  love  than 
starlight." 

And  as  I  said  this,  my  dream  flashed  suddenly 
from  night  to  morning,  and  I  awoke. 


XI 

"si  LE  ROI  M'AVAIT  DONNE" 

THERE  are  few  things  in  life  so  convincingly 
awake  as  a  railway  station.  It  has  no  booking  of- 
fice for  dreams.  So  when  Sir  Michael  and  I  met 
at  the  train  on  Tuesday  morning  there  was  no 
glow  of  the  firelight  about  him,  no  gleam  of  the 
starlight  about  me.  We  were  just  unemotional 
travellers  up  to  London. 

While  I  bought  tickets,  he  bought  newspapers, 
and  almost  silently  we  took  our  seats  in  a  vacant 
compartment.  He  began  at  once  to  read  the  "East 
Anglian  Daily  Times,"  and  an  occasional  chuckle 
indicated  that  he  was  continuing  his  parochial 
studies. 

Some  time  passed  thus.  Then,  while  I  was  ex- 
ploring reverently  the  labyrinthian  columns  of  the 
"Times,"  Sir  Michael  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation 
of  horror,  crushed  his  newspaper  in  his  hands  and 
dashed  it  on  the  floor. 

"Man !  man !"  he  cried,  "give  me  your  London 
157 


GLAMOURIE 

paper!  Quick!" — and  seizing  my  "Times"  he 
turned  the  pages  feverishly,  found  what  he  sought 
and  read,  his  face  twitching  with  excitement. 

At  last  he  threw  the  paper  from  him,  saying, 
"It  is  true  then!  Horrible!  Horrible!"  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I  cannot  lose  her,"  I  heard  him  mutter  in  a 
heartbroken  voice;  "I  cannot  lose  her." 

"Sir  Michael,"  I  said,  laying  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  "let  me  share  your  trouble.  Let  me  help 
you  If  I  can,  dear  friend." 

He  looked  up  and  tried  to  smile  in  his  old  whim- 
sical fashion.  It  was  a  sad  attempt. 

"No,  my  good  Jack,"  he  said,  half  sobbing, 
"don't  you  remember  ?  The  Divine  Chance  spoke 
— you  were  to  burst — move  among  mysteries — 
but  we  did  not  then  know " 

He  was  righting  hard  to  master  himself  and  his 
face  ceased  twitching. 

" — We  did  not  then  guess — this  tragedy — I  am 
superstitious,  Jack — you  shall  burst — you  shall 
burst — who  knows?" 

He  faltered  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"This  will  never  do,"  he  continued,  and  his 

voice  steadied  under  the  effort  of  his  will.   "Here 

am  I  sweating  like  an  Englishman  when  I  ought 

to  be  thinking  like  a  Frenchman.    Let  me  begin 

158 


"SI  LE  ROI  M'AVAIT  DONNE" 

at  the  tap-root  of  the  problem — first,  there  was 
Sir  Michael  Burke,  Parisian,  winging  himself  by 
the  power  of  his  will,  like  the  doves  in  Dante, 
toward  his  heart's  desire! — second,  here  is  Sir 
Michael  Burke,  Islander,  caught  in  the  tentacles 
of  a  polyp,  a  writhing  devil-fish,  a  thing  of  slime 
and  suckers,  that  will  pluck  out  the  heart  of  his 
mystery.  What  do  you  make  of  that,  my  burst- 
ing friend?" 

"Nothing  whatever,"  I  confessed,  delighted 
that  he  could  jest  again. 

"Nor  I,"  said  he;  "and  yet  there  must  be  a 
way  out.  What  says  my  great  La  Rochefoucauld  ? 
'Rien  n'est  impossible:  il  y  a  des  voies  qui  con- 
duisent  a  toutes  choses;  et  si  nous  avions  asses 
de  volonte,  nous  aurions  toujours  asses  de  moy- 
ens.' 

"Now  I,"  he  continued  earnestly,  "have  asses 
de  volonte." 

I  agreed  with  this  premise. 

"Then  I  shall  find  asses  de  moyensf  Now  let 
me  think;  for  before  we  get  to  London  I  must 
find  the  way." 

And  curling  himself  in  the  corner  seat  like  a 
small  boy,  he  gave  himself  to  thought. 

As  ours  was  a  slow  train,  due  at  Liverpool 
Street  at  10:33,  Sir  Michael  had  an  hour  and  a 
159 


GLAMOURIE 

half  in  which  to  extricate  himself  from  the  tenta- 
cles of  his  devil-fish.  In  fact,  an  hour  sufficed 
him ;  an  hour  that,  as  I  now  look  back  on  it  know- 
ing its  high  meaning,  marks  one  of  the  great  sta- 
tions on  the  way  to  the  Lanterne  de  Diogene. 

While  he  thought  I  searched  the  newspapers, 
column  by  column,  in  quest  of  horrors.  Of  these, 
as  usual,  there  were  enough;  but  not  one,  as  far 
as  I  could  see,  that  related  to  Sir  Michael.  An 
explosion  in  a  mine,  with  a  hundred  widows 
shrieking  at  the  mouth  of  the  pit;  the  wreck  of 
a  train  coming  from  some  race,  with  the  list  of 
titled  victims;  the  sanguinary  shock  of  two  fren- 
zied motor  cars;  these  were  the  more  than  suf- 
ficient evils  of  the  day. 

At  the  end  of  the  hour  Sir  Michael  spoke. 

"Jack,"  he  asked,  "what  is  the  next  White  Star 
boat  for  New  York?" 

"The  Celtic,"  I  answered,  after  consulting  the 
advertisement,  "sailing  from  Southampton  to- 
morrow." 

"Jarniprismel — that  makes  the  last  link  in  the 
chain !  The  Celtic,  Jack !  My  way  to  safety  lies 
on  the  Celtic!  Think,  man" — he  made  a  wry 
face — "it  might  have  been  the  Teutonic.  Could 
Michael  Burke,  Parisian,  have  accepted  safety 
from  a  thing  called  teutonic?  The  Celtic ! — why, 
1 60 


"SI  LE  ROI  M'AVAIT  DONN£" 

Jack,  there  is  sanity  and  healing  in  the  very 
name."  And  Sir  Michael,  like  a  child  with  a 
new  word  that  has  caught  its  fancy,  clapped 
his  little  hands,  repeating  again  and  again,  "The 
Celtic!" 

"Jack,"  he  continued,  "I  never  did  any  real 
thinking  until  now.  It  has  been  an  egregious  ex- 
perience. My  volition  clutched  the  levers  of  my 
mind  and  made  the  engine  do  its  bidding. 

"And,  Jack,  this  is  going  to  be  most  amusing 
for  you.  Listen!  I  have  discovered  that  your 
bursting  ignorance  is  to  be  one  of  the  moves  in 
the  game.  Yet,  just  for  your  diversion,  old  fel- 
low, you  shall  see  all  the  elements  of  my  great 
problem.  All  the  elements  but  one,  Jack;  and 
that  you  may  guess  if  you  can." 

"Forgive  the  blatant  egotism  of  all  this,"  he 
went  on,  "but  really  I  feel  as  if  I  were  talking  of 
some  one  else,  of  a  skatter-pated  little  Irish  hunch- 
back that  has  planned  a  mad  thing.  He  stands 
on  the  threshold,  Jack,  of  something  immortally 
great  or  superbly  phrenetic." 

"Not  a  prudent  attitude,  Sir  Michael,"  I  said 
warningly,  "for  an  Islander,  as  you  call  yourself, 
in  the  heart  of  London  city." 

For  we  were  nearing  our  journey's  end. 

"London!"  he  cried;  "the  battle  begins!  Ha! 
161 


GLAMOURIE 

Press  where  ye  see  my  topper  shine  amid  the 
ranks  of  war — Jack,  you  must  be  back  in  Paris 
to-night?" 

"I  ought,  Sir  Michael." 

"Lucky  dog!  I  am  jealous  of  you.  Well,  I 
want  you  to  take  possession  of  my  room,  of  Prism, 
and  all  my  traps.  I  shall  give  you  a  letter  to  the 
patronne  and  some  sort  of  a  legal  charabia  that 
my  solicitor  will  prepare." 

"A  bill  of  sale,"  I  suggested. 

"Perhaps — some  bibble-babble  with  a  seal  on 
it — Jack,"  he  added  solemnly,  "I  want  you  on 
guard,  for  my  sake  and  Golden's." 

"Against  what,  Sir  Michael  ?" 

"Against  what  shall  arrive." 

"Till  when,  Sir  Michael?" 

"Till  I  come  back  to  her.  I  sail  on  the  Celtic 
to-morrow !" 

Our  arrival  at  Liverpool  Street  stopped  conver- 
sation at  this  point.  Sir  Michael,  humming  a  gay 
little  song,  led  the  way  through  the  corridors  that 
join  the  station  to  the  Great  Eastern  Hotel,  en- 
gaged a  room  and  took  me  into  a  telephone 
booth. 

"Now,  Jack,"  said  he,  "attention ! — I  am  about 
to  scaffold  the  problem." 

He  rang  up  the  White  Star  office,  engaged  a 
162 


stateroom  on  the  Celtic,  noted  the  hour  of  the 
boat-train  and  agreed  to  call  in  the  afternoon  for 
his  ticket. 

"There,  Jack,"  he  remarked,  "is  one  bit  of  the 
scaffold." 

He  then  rang  up  Cleggs  and  Bodkin. 

"My  brokers,"  he  explained.  "Excellent  fel- 
lows !  It  is  curious,"  he  continued  with  a  note  of 
wonder  in  his  voice,  "most  curious " 

"What  is  curious?"  I  asked. 

"This  fact — I  love  and  admire  almost  every  in- 
dividual Englishman  that  I  know.  I  find  him 
warm-hearted  under  his  cold  silence;  finely  hos- 
pitable under  his  ungregarious  shyness;  and 
splendidly,  instantly,  insanely  brave  under  his 
shining  topper.  I  love  and  admire  him,  I  say; 
and  yet  I  am  forever  slamming,  as  an  Irishman 
ought,  my  Island-Englishman.  Explain  that, 
Jack." 

I  was  stunned.  This  from  Michael  Burke, 
Parisian ! 

"I  fancy,"  I  said,  "that  the  men  and  women 
of  all  nations  are  equally  lovable;  and  that  all 
nations,  as  nations,  are  equally  unlovely.  Nation- 
ality spells  antagonism." 

"Good,  Jack !"  he  assented  approvingly.  "Most 
sententious  and  very  true — except,  of  course,  as 
163 


GLAMOURIE 

to  that  flowering  of  Paris,  France!  Ah" — as 
the  telephone  rang — "this  is  Sir  Michael  Burke. 
I  want  Mr.  Cleggs.  Mr.  Cleggs?  Cleggs,  this 
is  Michael  Burke.  I  am  sailing  for  the  States 
to-morrow  and  I  want  ten  thousand  pounds  in 
cash  or  negotiable  securities  this  afternoon  at  four 
o'clock,  at  the  Great  Eastern  Hotel.  Yes;  sell 
anything  you  please.  Never  mind  the  loss.  Ah  ? 
— then  it  will  cheer  the  market  up  a  bit.  Thanks. 
My  regards  to  Bodkin.  Good-bye." 

"You  have  gilded  that  bit  of  scaffolding,  Sir 
Michael,"  I  observed. 

"Yes ;  and  it  makes  a  little  problem  for  Cleggs 
too,  for  the  market,  he  says  dolefully,  is  depressed. 
Now  for  dear  old  Wizzicks" — and  he  telephoned 
again — "my  solicitor." 

"Mr.  Wizzicks,"  said  Sir  Michael,  after  the 
usual  introductory  phrases,  "I  want  you  to  draw 
two  papers  for  me.  Eh  ?  my  instructions  ?  Then 
let  your  stenographer  come  to  the  telephone. 
First  paper:  Michael  Burke  to  John  Dwight, 
making  over  to  him  all  books,  manuscripts  (don't 
forget,  manuscripts!),  papers,  furniture,  pictures, 
cats  (yes;  cats,  c-a-t-s!),  and  so  forth  in  my  room 
number  eleven,  in  Hotel — Paris.  Consideration? 
Oh,  a  penny,  a  bob,  anything  binding  and  legal. 
And  I  want  a  big  red  seal  on  it  and  a  notary  pub- 
164 


"SI  LE  ROI  M'AVAIT  DONNE" 

lie  and  the  Lord  High  Chancellor!  Now,  Mr. 
Stenographer,  for  the  second  paper :  the  last  will 
of  Sir  Michael  Burke.  Same  as  will  now  in  Mr. 
Wizzicks's  custody,  with  these  changes.  Fifteen 
thousand  more  to  my  anti-cruelty  societies.  A 
thousand  more  to  Mrs.  Margaret  O'Connor.  My 
books  and  manuscripts  to  my  friend  John  Dwight, 
my  literary  executor.  That  is  all.  Send  the  first 
paper  to  the  Great  Eastern  Hotel  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. My  will  I  shall  execute  at  five  at  your  of- 
fice. Thank  you ! 

"There!"  said  Sir  Michael  to  me,  as  we 
took  seats  in  the  smoking  room,  "the  scaffold  is 
completed.  Note  that  it  is  a  tripod,  mechanic, 
fiscal,  forensic — Celtic,  'Change,  Wizzicks.  And 
perched  on  that  tripod,  thou,  O  Dwight,  a  Pythian 
oracle,  shalt  prophesy  of  the  doings  of  thy  daft 
friend  Michael  Burke. 

"But" — he  became  suddenly  serious  and  took 
my  big  hand  in  his  two  little  ones — "Jack,  re- 
member this!  Whatever  happens,  don't  worry 
about  me.  It  is  not  quite  playing  our  game  to 
say  this;  but  I  can't  let  you  fret  for  the  sake  of 
any  game.  And  indeed  after  you  have  solved  my 
riddle,  there  will  still  be  a  residue  of  mystery  to 
tease  and  please  you.  So  whatever  happens,  I  re- 
peat, don't  worry,  Jack.  And" — he  hesitated  a 
165 


GLAMOURIE 

little  and  then  added — "guard  Golden  for  me, 
and  don't  let  her  worry  either." 

My  dear  Master,  how  tenderly  he  cherished  the 
hearts  of  those  he  loved !  How  well,  in  his  three 
friends,  he  gauged  those  petty  preoccupations  that 
bulk  so  large  in  daily  life ! 

He  knew  that  a  puzzle  to  me  is  a  perennial  joy. 
From  a  boyhood  passed  among  the  verbal  arcana 
of  word-squares,  enigmas,  acrostics  and  ana- 
grams, I  grew  to  a  manhood  that  loved  all  kindred 
mysteries.  The  Rosicrucian  Zanoni  was  a  living 
hero  to  me;  Poe's  lucid  Dupin  and  Gaboriau's 
logical  Lecoq  were  my  close  friends;  while  the 
godlike  detective  of  Doyle  (may  the  pen  of  Dr. 
Watson  never  rest!)  was  a  stimulant  to  meticu- 
lous observation.  Then,  later  on,  I  studied  the 
causes  celebres  of  my  profession,  with  its  tales  of 
crime,  mistaken  identities,  personations,  and  all 
the  shadowed  romance  of  the  courts. 

A  puzzle,  then,  of  any  kind  was  dear  to  me 
for  its  own  cryptic  sake ;  and  therefore,  asking  no 
questions,  I  sat  contentedly  on  Sir  Michael's  fan- 
tastic "tripod"  and  waited.  This  pleased  him. 

"Jack,"  he  said,   "I  like  your  bland  silence. 

Nothing  human  is  so  emphatic  as  a  bland  silence ! 

Barring  your  dress,  you  look  exactly  like  the 

(Edipus  of  Ingres  in  the  Louvre,  staring  with 

166 


''SI  LE  ROI  M'AVAIT  DONNE" 

nonchalant  seriousness  into  the  eyes  of  the 
Sphinx.  But,  my  Jack,  (Edipus  had  an  easy  rid- 
dle to  yours,  and  you  will  never  read  it  all  un- 
til— "  and  he  made  that  vague,  clutching  skyward 
gesture  and  stopped  talking. 

"Until—"  I  prompted. 

"Until  I  myself  have  found  the  key,  my  CEdi- 
pus ;  and  that  key  will  be  the  Gospel  according  to 
Sir  Michael." 

"I  thank  you,"  I  said  with  mock  gravity ;  "and 
meanwhile  I  am  supremely  comfortable  on  my 
tripod." 

There  followed  a  time  of  sympathetic  taciturn- 
ity, that  wordless  test  of  friendships,  a  silence 
broken  only  by  the  gay  little  song  that  Sir  Mi- 
chael was  humming  pianissimo.  He  repeated  the 
same  strain  over  and  over,  and  I  caught  at  re- 
curring intervals  the  name  "Paris." 

"Jack,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "have  you  seen  your 
fancied  city  again?" 

This  question  led  me  to  speak  of  my  curate- 
haunted  dream  and  of  how  I,  wing  clipped, 
watched  him  light  the  lamps  of  the  spiritual  city. 

"An  auspicious  dream,  Jack!"  he  cried;  "most 

refreshing   and   cordial!      Psychology,    perhaps, 

would  hold  it  only  a  plexus  of  tangled  reflexes; 

but  to  my  thinking  its  roots  go  very  deep,  below 

167 


GLAMOURIE 

all  words,  below  all  thoughts,  down  to  that  wist- 
ful, wondering,  dumb,  sky-aspiring  thing,  the  hu- 
man soul."  He  laughed  mischievously.  "I  am 
glad  I  chivied  the  six  little  curates,  Jack!  So  I 
am  the  lamplighter,  am  I,  the  official  lamplighter 
of  the  over-dream?  Ha!" 

And  he  began  to  sing  again,  this  time  loud 
enough  for  me  to  hear  the  words, 

"Si  le  roi  m'avait  donne 

Paris,  sa  grande  ville, 
\Et  qu'il  m'eut  fallu  quitter 

L 'amour  de  ma  mie, 
J'aurais  dit  au  roi  Henri: 
Reprenez  votre  Paris; 

J'aime  mieux  ma  mie; 
O  gai!  j'aime  mieux  ma  mie. 

"Jack,"  said  he,  "what  do  you  say  to  the  alter- 
native presented  by  King  Henry?" 

"I  am  with  the  song-writer,  heart  and  soul," 
I  said  stoutly;  "and  you?" 

"J'aurais  dit  au  roi  Henri,"  sang  Sir  Michael, 
"Paris  est  bien  ma  mie!" 

The  rest  of  our  conversation  that  morning  was 

haunted  by  Sir  Michael's  old  song.    It  filled  the 

gaps  in  our  talk.    It  sang  while  he  wrote  to  the 

patronne  of  his  hotel  putting  me  in  possession  of 

168 


"SI  LE  ROI  M'AVAIT  DONNE" 

his  room.  It  chanted  gravely  between  the  lines 
of  Mr.  Wizzicks's  bill  of  sale.  It  intoned  itself 
solemnly  into  the  affixing  of  the  seal  thereto  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Wizzicks's  old  clerk. 

"J'aurais  dit  au  roi  Henri"  said  Sir  Michael 
in  a  dry,  forensic  voice,  as  he  handed  me  the  pa- 
per, "Reprenez  votre  Paris!" 

I  accepted  it  with  such  gravity  as  I  could  com- 
mand, trusting  that  Mr.  Wizzicks's  solemn  clerk 
was  ignorant  of  French. 

It  was  sauce  for  our  luncheon,  this  eternal  song. 
It  went  timidly  down  with  us  into  the  station  at 
Bishopgate  Street.  It  moaned  in  a  veiled  voice 
through  the  "Tuppenny  Tube." 

"Observe,  Jack,"  said  Sir  Michael,  "I  am  now 
singing  like  a  troglodyte  in  his  palaeolithic  cave." 

Doubtfully  it  changed  cars  at  Oxford  Circus; 
boldly  it  rang  through  the  "Baker  Loo" ;  and  at 
last,  with  a  swelling  note  of  triumph,  it  rose  into 
the  daylight  again  at  Charing  Cross.  Dirge-like 
it  led  me  to  my  train  for  Folkstone ;  and  tenderly, 
as  one  who  cares  for  a  child,  it  found  me  a  corner 
seat. 

"Now,  Jack,"  said  Sir  Michael,  "I  have  pa- 
tiently and  painfully  presented  the  dilemma  of 
King  Henry  to  you  in  all  possible  ways.  Hungry 
and  fed,  thirsty  and  slaked,  above  ground  and  be- 

12  169 


GLAMOURIE 

low  ground,  truculently  and  with  all  the  beati- 
tudes, I  have  musically  displayed  the  alternative 
to  your  soul.  What  say  you  now  ?" 

"J'aurais  dit  au  roi  Henri — "  I  began  firmly. 

"But  consider,  Jack!"  begged  Sir  Michael,  as 
if  my  future  hung  on  my  decision,  "think  of 
Paris !  Think  of  that  vast,  vague,  wistful  woman- 
soul  waiting  for  you  there  by  the  banks  of  the 
Seine.  Think  of  her  memories,  Jack !  Think  of 
her  mysteries!" 

The  guard  came  to  shut  the  carriage  door  and 
Sir  Michael  shook  my  hand  and  got  out. 

"Consider!"  he  pleaded,  looking  up  at  me  im- 
ploringly. 

"Never!"  I  said,  laughing.  "If  I  ever  have  a 
sweetheart,  I  shall  sing  O  gai!  j'aime  mieux  ma 
mie" 

The  train  started  and  I  left  Sir  Michael  singing 
at  me  on  the  platform,  while  a  group  of  porters 
regarded  him  with  astonishment. 

His  song  (a  little  ruse,  no  doubt,  to  hide  my 
Master's  great  emotion)  links  Charing  Cross, 
whimsically  enough,  to  the  Great  Unveiling,  when 
I  heard  it  next  in  the  woods  of  St.  Cloud  from 
the  Lanterne  de  Diogene. 


XII 

THE  TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 

THE  next  day,  Wednesday,  I  gave  up  my 
lodging  in  the  Rue  de  Medicis  and  took  pos- 
session of  Sir  Michael's  room  on  the  Quai 
Voltaire. 

Prism,  who  had  been  left  in  the  care  of  the 
femme  de  chambre,  accepted  me  courteously  but 
without  enthusiasm.  He  watched  with  compla- 
cency the  reinstallation  of  his  bed  and  platter,  but 
received  all  attempts  at  badinage  with  disconcert- 
ing gravity.  Yet,  after  I  had  wound  his  clock, 
he  leapt  into  my  lap  and  gazed  at  me  with  kindly 
eyes. 

"Ah,  Master  Prism,"  I  said,  "your  eyes  are  full 
of  English  starlight  now!" 

As  I  was  merely  "on  guard,"  I  disturbed  noth- 
ing of  Sir  Michael's,  but  arranged  a  table  for  my 
work  near  the  window  that  looks  down  on  the 
great  "Epic  of  the  Seine."  That  done,  I  surren- 
dered myself  to  thought,  interrupted  only  when 
171 


GLAMOURIE 

some  boat,  an  old  friend  of  Sir  Michael's,  shrieked 
its  summons  to  the  ecluse  de  la  Monnaie. 

Though  international  law  was  wholly  neglected, 
yet  that  afternoon  had  its  teachings.  Surely  it  is 
well  for  us  humans,  caught  as  we  are  in  the 
"roaring  loom  of  time,"  to  take  into  our  hands 
and  to  tell  over  one  by  one  the  coloured  strands 
that  make  the  warp  and  woof  of  life.  Fate  or 
chance  or  some  dumb,  unguessed  desire  may  be 
weaving  them,  unknown  to  us,  into  a  pattern  that 
needs  the  ordering  fiat  of  the  will. 

Perhaps  I  cannot  claim  this  high  ethical  pur- 
pose. Perhaps  the  firelight  and  starlight  still  col- 
oured my  fancy.  Whatever  the  cause,  my  mind 
wavered  from  my  books,  and  I  soon  gave  myself 
to  retrospect. 

A  whimsical  retrospect! — groups  of  Paris  and 
Sir  Michael  Burke  mathematically  combined. 
This  comes  of  being  a  noun-man  and  a  plodding, 
logical  animal. 

No  Paris  and  no  Sir  Michael ;  and  I  hark  back 
to  my  New  England  boyhood,  a  boyhood  passed 
in  the  shadow  cast  on  my  generation  by  an  extinct 
creed  more  infallible  than  a  hundred  popes.  Yet, 
because  Mnemosyne  is  an  idealist,  this  memory  is 
not  unsweet:  I  hear  dead  leaves  (ah!  they  are 
fragrant  and  ankle-deep)  rustling  about  my 
172 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 

sauntering  feet,  and  see  the  faded  gold  of  an 
autumnal  sunset  melting  through  the  New  Eng- 
land elms.  What  right,  I  ask,  as  I  look  out  on 
Paris,  "dimpling  as  she  smiles," — what  right  have 
those  darkened,  moody  days  to  come  back  to  me 
in  this  Indian-summer  fashion?  I  am  free  of 
them  now,  thank  my  Master  for  that!  yet  none 
can  have  passed  his  tender  years  in  the  heritage  of 
that  creed  and  escaped  altogether  unsaddened. 

Paris  and  no  Sir  Michael.  Brrr! — I  tramp 
again  along  the  roaring  Turbigo  through  a  sordid 
city,  mood  evoked,  that  vanished  at  the  door  of 
the  Hall  of  the  Innocents.  Jarniprisme!  I  do  not 
lament  the  passing  of  that  Paris  or  the  mood 
either. 

Paris  and  Sir  Michael! — and  our  walks  and 
talks  together,  wherein  my  Master,  as  a  prophet 
of  his  deity,  as  a  priest  of  his  cult,  as  a  lover  of 
his  mistress,  painted  the  majesty,  mystery  and 
beauty  of  his  city. 

Sir  Michael  and  no  Paris;  as  London,  Ipswich 
and  London  again  passed  before  me,  Sir  Michael, 
explosive,  dramatic,  shouting  jarniprismes!  Sir 
Michael,  teasing  and  tender,  the  child  in  the  fire- 
light. Sir  Michael,  broken  by  some  unknown 
grief,  shaping  his  life  anew  (as  it  seemed  to  me) 
at  the  mouthpiece  of  the  telephone.  Sir  Michael, 
173 


GLAMOURIE 

as  I  saw  him  last,  singing  on  the  platform  of 
Charing  Cross,  singing  of  Paris. 

They  passed,  one  by  one,  these  juggling  com- 
binations, leaving  me  (a  me  changed  and  Sir- 
Michaelised)  alone  with  the  Paris  that  lay  before 
my  eyes;  a  Paris  intimate  yet  mysterious,  and 
j  touched,  now  that  I  had  been  taught  to  see  it, 
\  with  a  something  super- feminine.  And  I  thought 
1  as  I  stood  at  the  window  where  Sir  Michael  first, 
with  one  of  his  great  gestures,  introduced  me  to 
the  city,  that  perhaps  Arcadian  days  might  come 
.  /  when  his  Golden,  with  us  for  guides,  would  share 
V  and  heighten  its  loveliness. 

Good  dreamings  these! — and  I  am  glad  to  re- 
member them.  Let  a  man  keep  his  manhood 
gentle  with  the  dreams  of  his  youth,  say  I;  and 
let  his  happy  old  fingers  grow  crooked  with 
clutching  them! 

So  passed  the  Hours  while  I  told  over  the  col- 
oured strands;  and  night  came,  with  the  lights 
on  the  Seine,  and  "dear  lovers,  intertwined,"  and 
the  stars,  so  far  away,  hanging  in  the  red  glare 
over  Paris.  And  I  slept  and  awoke  to  the  light 
of  an  immemorial  day — the  day  after  the  Great 
Jest. 

The  warm  air  tempting  me,  I  wandered  out 
after  breakfast,  bought  a  "Daily  Mail"  and  a 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 

"Matin"  at  the  kiosque  near  the  Pont  Royal,  and 
then  strolled  to  the  little  pond  in  the  Garden  of 
the  Tuileries  near  the  Pavilion  de  Flore. 

It  is  a  sweet  spot,  yet  sedately  geometric,  look- 
ing like  some  truant  proposition  of  Euclid  that 
has  escaped  from  its  book  and  waxed  huge  in  the 
freedom  of  Paris.  The  fountain,  which  bubbles 
furtively  on  week-days  and  splashes  riotously  on 
Sunday,  sends  out  from  the  centre  of  the  pond 
those  eternal,  expanding,  glimmering  rings  that 
are  the  delight  of  the  child  and  the  dreamer. 
There  is  a  girdle  of  green  around  the  pond  and 
a  zone  of  trodden  gravel  around  the  green.  From 
the  latter  (as  if  Euclid  had  said,  "intersect  the 
circle  with  the  line  A-B")  runs,  slashed  right  and 
left,  a  straight  walk.  On  one  side  of  this  lie 
level  pelouse,  white  statues,  vases  and  paths  that 
lead  the  eye  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  and  into  the 
deep  vistas  of  the  Louvre  beyond.  On  the  other 
side,  always  with  the  gurgling  fountain  as  centre, 
spring  two  semicircles,  arcs  of  brown  gravel 
curving  through  green  lawns.  The  smaller  of 
these,  with  seats  of  stone  facing  the  pond,  is 
screened  on  the  outer  side  by  a  mass  of  box  bushes 
and  firs,  into  which  the  other,  sweeping  into  a 
larger  curve,  disappears  with  a  certain  Parisian 
coquetry. 

'75 


GLAMOURIE 

I  love  the  place.  I  have  passed  glorious  hours 
there  with  my  Master ;  there  began  what  he  called 
the  "mechanics"  of  his  victory;  and  there,  on  his 
'favourite  bench  (the  central  bench  nearest  the 
fountain),  I  have  written  much  of  his  story.  Ah ! 
if  it  could  be  read  there  too — read  with  the  caress 
of  Paris  warm  on  the  heart — how  easy  it  would 
be  to  understand,  how  beautiful ! 

There  were  scents  of  spring  in  the  air  and  a 
good  warmth  in  the  sun  as  I  took  my  place  on 
Sir  Michael's  bench;  and,  touched  by  the  pleas- 
ing geometry  of  the  scene,  I  likened  it  to  a  theatre 
of  the  golden  days  of  Greece. 

Nor  were  the  actors  lacking.  Round  the  walk 
that  zones  the  pond  wandered  a  pair  of  dear  dem- 
onstrative, Parisian  lovers,  young  things  in  their 
teens,  glorying  in  the  springtide  of  life.  Round 
they  wandered,  round  and  round,  as  if,  circling 
about  the  circles,  the  eternal,  glimmering  rings  on 
the  water,  they  were  solving  thus  some  problem 
in  the  gentle  geometry  of  love.  So  they  moved, 
rhythmic,  all  the  time  I  sat  there.  We  were  quite 
alone,  these  dear  lovers  and  I,  within  a  few  yards 
of  each  other ;  and  I,  for  my  part,  was  the  happier 
for  it. 

I  opened  my  "Daily  Mail."  Black  headlines 
caught  my  eye,  and  then,  with  horror  and  con- 

176 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 

fusion,  the  meaning  of  the  words  rushed  into  my 
brain.     This  was  what  I  read: 

"TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 
"SUICIDE  OF  SIR  MICHAEL  BURKE 

"The  officers  of  the  Celtic,  which  sailed  from 
Southampton,  bound  for  New  York,  yesterday, 
reported  on  arriving  at  Cherbourg  a  distressing 
tragedy  that  took  place  while  crossing  the  Chan- 
nel. 

"It  appears  that  the  victim,  Sir  Michael  Burke, 
had  engaged  his  passage  for  New  York  only  the 
day  before  sailing.  Shortly  after  the  Celtic  had 
sailed,  he  called  on  the  purser  and  asked  to  change 
his  room  for  one  on  the  upper  deck,  explaining 
that  he  was  ill  and  nervous  and  needed  air.  As 
there  chanced  to  be  a  room  unoccupied,  the  change 
was  made.  Scarcely,  however,  had  Sir  Michael 
been  installed  in  the  new  room  when  he  called  on 
the  purser  again  and  asked  him  a  strange  ques- 
tion. 'If  the  King  should  give  you  Paris/  he  de- 
manded, 'on  condition  that  you  gave  up  your 
sweetheart,  would  you  accept?'  The  question 
was  asked  with  some  excitement  and  the  purser 
concluded  that  Sir  Michael  had  been  drinking. 
It  appears  that  he  made  the  same  inquiry  of  the 
ship's  doctor  and  a  deck-steward. 
177 


GLAMOURIE 

"About  mid-channel  the  deceased  approached  a 
lady  passenger,  who  chanced  to  be  standing  alone 
on  the  after-deck,  and  asked  her  the  same  ques- 
tion. She  was  alarmed  and  tried  to  avoid  him, 
when  he  seized  her  arm  and  said  something  about 
getting  an  answer  to  his  riddle  from  the  mermaids 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  He  then  began  to  sing 
wildly  in  French,  clambered  over  the  rail  and 
plunged  into  the  water.  The  lady  ran  shrieking 
up  on  the  bridge  and  gave  the  alarm.  The  vessel 
was  stopped,  boats  were  lowered  and  every  effort 
was  made  to  save  the  unfortunate  man.  His  cloak 
and  hat,  which  marked  the  place  where  he  sank, 
were  recovered ;  but  his  body  could  not  be  found. 
Those  who  talked  with  the  deceased  just  before 
his  death  agree  that  he  was  mentally  unbalanced. 
He  appeared  to  be  thirty-five  to  forty  years  old, 
very  blond  and  somewhat  hunchbacked.  These 
characteristics  and  papers  found  in  his  baggage 
served  to  establish  his  identity. 

"Later.  On  going  to  press,  we  learn  that  Sir 
Michael  Burke,  whose  suicide  is  reported  above, 
had  just  fallen  heir  to  the  title  and  estates  of  the 
Earl  of  Athlone,  who,  with  his  only  son,  the 
Marquis  of  Moville,  perished  so  tragically  in  the 
'race  disaster'  of  last  Monday.  Sir  Michael  was 
a  distant  cousin  of  the  Earl,  but  owing  to  a  pro- 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 

longed  residence  in  foreign  parts  he  was  scarcely 
known  in  London  society.  The  ancient  title  and 
vast  estates  now  devolve  on  a  brother  of  deceased, 
Sir  Ernest  Burke,  incumbent  of  the  living  at  Box- 
leigh,  Suffolk." 

I  read  this,  I  say,  with  horror  and  confusion. 
A  cold  wave  of  death  flowed  over  my  heart.  Then 
(ah  God,  the  solace  of  it!)  memory  awoke.  I 
felt  my  Master  take  my  big  hand  in  his  two  little 
ones  and  heard  him  say,  "Jack,  remember  this! 
Whatever  happens,  don't  worry  about  me.  It  is 
not  quite  playing  our  game  to  say  this,  but  I  can't 
let  you  fret  for  the  sake  of  any  game." 

The  cold  wave  of  death  warmed  and  rippled 
away  in  laughter.  This,  then,  was  the  "problem" 
that  Sir  Michael  "scaffolded"  at  the  telephone; 
this  was  the  "something  immortally  great  or  su- 
perbly phrenetic" ;  and  this  was  the  subject  where- 
of my  "bursting  ignorance"  was  to  be  "one  of 
the  moves  of  the  game." 

Then  Sir  Michael  is  alive!  I  drew  a  mighty 
breath  of  relief  and  let  the  paper  fall.  As  I  did 
so,  the  outer  world  glowed  suddenly  into  my  con- 
sciousness; and  the  warmth  of  the  spring,  the 
murmuring  fountain,  the  shimmering  rings  on  the 
water,  and  the  young  lovers,  circling  and  mur- 
muring too,  all  blended  so  happily  with  my  mood 
179 


GLAMOURIE 

of  thanksgiving  that  I  cried  aloud,  "Dieu  vous 
benisse,  mes  enfants!  Moi  aussi,  je  suis  heureux!" 

And  they  smiled  in  answer,  those  dear  little 
lovers,  and  continued  their  gyrations.  I  had  rea- 
son to  remember  this  benediction  afterwards. 

After  my  explosion  of  sentiment,  I  read  the 
narrative  again,  and  solved  Sir  Michael's  little 
problem  without  difficulty.  I  solved,  that  is,  the 
mechanics  of  the  problem,  the  physical  means 
adopted  by  Sir  Michael  to  make  the  world  believe 
him  dead.  The  reader,  of  course,  will  unriddle 
it  at  once,  for  he  or  she  will  have  all  of  my  clues 
and  none  of  my  emotions. 

Sir  Michael's  motive  was  another  matter.  Why 
his  overmastering  dread  on  the  train?  Why  did 
he  seek  refuge  in  an  imaginary  death  from  the 
"ancient  title  and  vast  estates"  of  the  Earl  of 
Athlone?  I,  democrat  though  I  be,  would  not 
evade  an  English  Earldom.  I  should  like  to  be 
called  "My  Lord,"  and  would  accept  it  graciously. 
I  would  risk  the  imputation  of  being  Kenyon's 
"accident  of  an  accident"  if  it  brought  me  a  seat 
in  the  House  of  Lords. 

Either  Sir  Michael  measured  his  great  heritage 

by  another  standard,  or  he  saw  in  it  an  obstacle 

to  something  more  precious  still.     "A  thing  of 

slime  and  suckers,"  he  said,  "that  will  pluck  out 

1 80 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 

the  heart  of  my  mystery.  What  do  you  make  of 
that,  my  bursting  friend?" 

The  heart  of  his  mystery!  Let  the  bursting 
friend  frankly  admit  that  he  could  make  nothing 
of  it.  He  had  to  wait,  with  such  patience  as  was 
his,  for  the  Unveiling  on  the  Lanterne  de  Diogene. 
Will  the  reader,  with  the  facts  he  has  and  will 
have,  be  clearer  sighted? 

Another  parenthetic  word  to  that  reader  here. 
The  New  England  conscience  is  a  prickly,  dry 
burr  that  sticks  even  to  those  that  have  won  the 
freedom  of  the  heather.  And  it  gets  more  prickly, 
which  seems  illogical,  for  every  temptation  over- 
come. My  burr,  thus  newly  barbed,  stings  me  to 
confession;  and  I  yield,  hoping  thereby  to  show 
the  rude  formulae  I  have  followed  in  writing  this 
history. 

I  had  not  worked  on  it  a  week,  I  had  scarcely 
glanced  at  the  manuscript  notes  furnished  me  by 
Sir  Michael,  before  I  saw  the  full  meaning  of  the 
"command  to  write  the  story." 

My  life  to  the  task — no  less !  For  this  history 
done  (the  lightest  part  of  the  labour)  there  re- 
mains the  studying,  sorting,  grouping,  arranging, 
interpreting  and  publishing  of  his  mighty  sheaves 
of  notes;  such  a  task  indeed  as  confronted  the 
brothers  of  Port  Royal  when  they  classified  the 
181 


GLAMOURIE 

"Pensees"  of  their  great  Pascal.  Nay ;  their  task 
were  play  to  mine.  For  Pascal's  "Pensees"  grew 
out  of  the  logic  of  an  ancient  faith,  already  crys- 
tallised and  formulated,  and  needed  only  to  be 
fitted  into  place;  whereas  the  Book  of  Jarni- 


pnsmes ! 

Hence,  I  say,  I  had  not  worked  a  week  before 
I  abandoned  my  chosen  profession,  "cut"  the  Sor- 
bonne,  sold  my  law  books  to  a  stall  on  the  Quai 
Malaquais  (whence  they  glared  at  me  for  months 
afterwards)  and  gave  myself  to  the  study  of 
rhetoric,  classic  English  fiction  and  biography. 
And  out  of  that  study  arose,  when  I  began  to 
write,  the  temptation  mentioned  above.  "Why 
not,"  whispered  a  naughty  inner  voice,  "give  the 
dramatic  effect  of  fiction  to  your  biography  ?  Why 
not  suppress  a  fact  here,  over-emphasise  a  fact 
there,  and  thus  create,  by  reservation  and  distor- 
tion, little  plots,  surprises  and  denouements  within 
the  ordered  march  of  your  biography?"  I  knew 
it  for  evil,  this  voice;  yet  I  played,  for  a  brief, 
wicked  moment,  with  its  suggestion.  Then,  re- 
jecting it  as  profane  to  my  task,  I  added  another 
rule  to  those  already  given  me  by  Sir  Michael: 
"I  shall  let  the  reader  know,  at  each  moment  of 
the  story,  just  what  I  myself  knew  at  that  mo- 
ment— no  more,  no  less."  This  rule  I  have  mi- 
J82 


THE  TRAGEDY  ON  THE  CELTIC 

nutely  observed  (let  this  be  my  absolution)  save 
for  a  hint  now  and  again,  introduced  for  reasons 
of  chronology,  of  the  approach  of  the  Day  on  the 
Lanterne  de  Diogene.  Thus  endeth  the  parenthe- 
sis. It  will  serve  to  prove,  I  trust,  that  the  reader 
knows  all  that  was  known  to  my  "bursting  ig- 
norance" as  I  sat  by  the  pond  in  the  gardens. 

Still  bursting,  then,  I  left  the  little  lovers  to 
their  soft  geometry  and  sought  the  White  Star 
office  in  the  Rue  Scribe.  The  information  I  ob- 
tained there  tallied  precisely  with  that  in  the 
"Daily  Mail." 

That  done,  I  returned  to  the  hotel  and  there, 
amid  the  familiar  books  and  pictures  of  My  Lord 
the  Earl  of  Athlone,  I  began  a  letter. 

"Prism,"  I  remarked,  "I  am  writing  a  letter  to 
Sir  Michael's  Golden." 

But  Prism  was  licking  his  already  immaculate 
paws  and  did  not  hear  my  announcement. 

As  I  dipped  my  pen  in  the  ink,  Henri,  the  gar- 
gon,  knocked  and  handed  me  a  telegram,  the  fa- 
miliar, blue,  perforated  telegram  of  official  France. 
This  is  what  it  said : 

"Dwight.  5  Rue  Medicis.  Paris.  Our  hearts 
laugh  under  crape.  G.  B." 

"Prism,"  I  said  impressively,  "that  is  a  tele- 
gram !  Any  one  can  write  a  Bible,  or  a  Magna 
183 


GLAMOURIE 

Charta,  or  an  Iliad ;  but  a  telegram  like  that — five 
words,  my  Prism! — it  is  sorcery! 

"Five  words,  my  beautiful  cat — and  each  word 
a  whole  Book  of  Revelations.  Our,  that  is, 
Golden's  and  Mother  Mag's.  Hearts,  that  is  af- 
fections, sympathies,  loves,  understandings,  all 
that  is  psychical.  Laugh,  that  is  merriment,  an 
Irish  joy  in  a  huge  joke,  and  the  will  to  share  it 
with  me.  Under,  that  is  reticence,  concealment, 
the  guarding  of  Sir  Michael's  secret.  Crape,  that 
means  acceptance  of  the  death  and  all  its  conse- 
quences and  a  display  to  the  world  of  the  symbols 
of  grief.  Everything  is  in  those  five  magic  words, 
my  Prism ;  and  a  delicious  witchcraft  besides." 

And  in  my  delight  I  whispered  the  telegram 
again  and  again  into  Prism's  astonished  ear.  He 
did  not  like  it. 

When  I  was  calm  once  more  I  sought  the  tele- 
graph office  in  the  Rue  des  Saints-Peres  and  sent 
an  answer  (alas!  how  commonplace)  to  Golden. 
That  done,  I  provided  myself  with  a  sort  of  half- 
mourning;  and  dressed  in  this  and  happy  in  the 
consciousness  that  I  had  a  useful  part  to  play  in 
the  drama  of  Sir  Michael  and  his  Golden,  I  en- 
tered on  this  new  epoch  of  his  history. 


XIII 

SPHINXES 

A  FRENCHMAN  once  summed  up  for  me  the 
difference  between  London  and  Paris  in  this 
phrase,  "Mon  ami,  Londres  n'est  pas  aussi  coquet 
que  Paris." 

He  had  found  the  happy  adjective.  London  is 
verily  not  coquet.  Indeed,  some  one  told  me  that 
the  bitterest  loneliness  he  ever  felt  was  when  he 
stood  for  an  hour  alone  at  Hyde  Park  Corner  dur- 
ing the  "season."  It  was  a  Maelstrom  of  faces," 
he  said,  "and  not  one  for  me." 

"Not  one  for  me!" — of  the  impassive,  shaven, 
weathered  British  faces.  That  was  the  bitterness. 

Now  in  Paris  it  is  otherwise.  Sympathy  throbs 
out  to  one  from  the  passing  throng.  Something 
says,  "Come,  mon  ami,  share  this  love  I  am  feel- 
ing, this  song  I  am  singing,  this  joke  I  am  laugh- 
ing at.  Come,  child  of  Paris,  love,  sing  and  laugh 
with  me!"  Once  the  ear  is  tuned  to  hear  this 
voice,  there  is  no  more  loneliness  in  Paris. 
13  185 


GLAMOURIE 

True;  we  stolid  Saxons,  cased  in  our  reserves, 
crepitating  with  mauvaise  honte,  have  the  dialect 
all  to  learn ;  but  I  had  made  some  progress  therein 
(thanks  to  Sir  Michael)  since  that  day  on  the 
roaring  Turbigo.  So  during  the  fortnight  that 
followed  The  Great  Jest,  as  we  now  call  the  inci- 
dent on  the  Celtic,  I  lived  contentedly  with 
Prism,  finding  comradeship  in  the  generous  life 
of  street  and  park. 

At  the  end  of  this  fortnight,  came  a  Thursday, 
that  because  of  what  its  evening  brought  I  have 
called  the  Day  of  Sphinxes.  I  had  yielded  that 
morning  to  the  blandishments  of  the  spring  sun- 
shine that  advised  me  to  take  my  book  and  do  my 
stint  of  study  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens.  Capit- 
ulating without  a  show  of  resistance,  I  selected  a 
pocketable  book,  and  started. 

Now  I  knew,  or  my  New  England  conscience 
knew,  precisely  what  would  happen.  No  man 
alive  can  sit  in  that  magic  garden  and  study.  Yet 
there  has  arisen  a  sweet  and  convincing  tradition 
to  the  contrary,  and  the  shaded  walks  are  full  of 
earnest  students  looking  wistfully  over  their  open 
books  across  the  warm  sprouting  sod  or  up  into 
the  pleasant  leafage. 

I  knew,  too,  that  no  man  alive  can  go  straight, 
by  a  single  impulse  of  his  will,  to  that  garden. 
186 


SPHINXES 

One  zigzags  thither  like  a  knight  on  the  chess- 
board, pulled  this  way  and  that  by  the  super- 
feminine  whims  and  coquetries  of  Paris,  le  Paris 
qui — le  Paris  que 

However,  leaving  my  New  England  burr  in 
Prism's  care,  I  went  out.  "I  shall  now  walk  rap- 
idly," I  said  to  myself,  "and  get  to  work."  And, 
in  the  saying,  I  stopped  short  to  watch  the  prog- 
ress of  a  huge  cube  of  stone,  higher  than  a  man, 
that  was  being  drawn  along  the  quai  by  a  tandem 
of  five  great,  grey  stallions  and  a  vociferating 
carter.  As  I  watched,  a  smiling  ouvrier  in  a  white 
smock  ran  from  the  sidewalk,  gave  the  stone  a 
humorous  push  to  help  it  on  its  way  and  danced 
off,  laughing.  Merry  fellow ! — he  had  seen  some 
jest  in  the  contrast  between  his  feeble  life  and 
the  inert  block  and  had  shared  his  jest  with  Paris. 
Fancy  a  London  navvy  doing  this!  But  then, 
"Londres  n'est  pas  aussi  coquet  que  Paris" 

Laughing  at  my  ouvrier 's  refutation  of  Bishop 
Berkeley.  I  hurried  on  and  found  the  Rue  des 
Saints-Peres  barree  to  vehicles.  Now  when  a 
street  is  barree  it  means  (such  is  the  whim  of 
Paris)  that  the  street  vendors  may  ply  their  trade 
in  the  enclosure  thus  formed;  so  I  stopped  again 
to  harken  to  their  talk.  There  was  a  smiling  ruf- 
fian selling  cigarettes  of  admirable  quality,  he  said, 
187 


GLAMOURIE 

and  exiguous  price.  Him  I  resisted ;  but  a  fat  old 
woman,  who  was  soldering  holes  in  a  tin  panni- 
kin, conquered  me  in  five  eloquent  minutes.  True, 
I  had  no  pannikin  or  anything  that  needed  solder ; 
yet  I  bought  a  dozen  sticks,  so  convinced  was  I 
that  solder  (next  to  daily  bread)  was  precious 
and  desirable.  I  have  it  still,  awaiting  a  hole  in 
a  possible  pannikin. 

The  third  huckster,  who  sold  a  whirligig  that 
spun  on  a  lamp  chimney,  was  dull  and  unconvinc- 
ing. I  doubt  if  he  was  a  child  of  Paris.  There 
was  nothing  coquet  about  him  or  his  engine. 

But  the  fourth  and  last — what  a  man !  He  sold 
a  collar  buttoner,  a  mere  twist  of  wire,  with  which 
ever  and  anon  he  attached  to  his  neck  a  collar, 
"le  plus  difficile  de  tons  les  faux  cols."  And  as 
he  buttoned  this  stubborn  collar  he  explained  in 
a  gushing  torrent  of  words  every  phase  of  the 
facile  operation.  It  was  a  clinique  of  the  faux  col. 
I  bought  his  machine  with  enthusiasm,  and  sub- 
sequently tried  to  use  it.  The  results  almost  shat- 
tered my  faith  in  human  nature. 

There  were  but  four  of  these  vendors,  so  I  es- 
caped laden  with  the  superfluous  solder  and  the 
fallacious  buttonhook. 

Other  than  human  loadstones  drew  me  aside 
from  Rue  Bonaparte,  the  jostling  street  that 
188 


SPHINXES 

marks  the  western  edge  of  the  "Quarter"  and 
leads  directly  to  the  Luxembourg  Gardens.  The 
Ecole  des  Beaux-Arts  tempted  me  into  that  paved 
court  where  the  stones  are  worn  smooth  by  the 
footsteps  of  great  masters.  There,  from  the  gate- 
posts, the  classic  shaven  faces  of  Poussin  and 
Puget  look  down  on  the  be-bearded  little  students 
of  to-day,  who  humorously  misname  them  (sacri- 
legious dogs!)  with  unprintable  additions, 

Then  Saint-Germain-des-Pres  (far  from  green 
meadows  now !)  whispered  to  me  as  I  tried  to  pass 
its  portal,  whispered  for  the  hundredth  time  of 
old  King  Childeberg  and  lost  abatial  glories.  I 
love  that  church! — not  for  the  painted  stone 
within,  but  for  the  four-square  tower  that  dig- 
nifies all  that  its  grey  strength  looks  down  upon. 
Grey? — it  is  the  greyest  thing  in  Paris,  I  think; 
and,  as  it  bulks  against  the  blue-grey  sky,  per- 
haps the  most  austerely  lovely. 

It  is  haunted,  too,  this  tower.  A  brave-timid 
old  ghost !  For  after  the  battle  of  Ivry  my  Hugue- 
not King,  who  was  then  besieging  Paris,  climbed 
there  (the  church  was  without  the  walls)  to  view 
the  city.  He  mounted  alone,  guided  by  a  single 
monk;  and  the  situation  and  the  cowled  figure 
played  on  the  fearful  nerves  of  this  hardened  sol- 
dier. "I  was  mortally  afraid  of  that  monk,"  he 
189 


GLAMOURIE 

confessed,  on  descending:  "I  thought  of  Jacques 
Clement  and  watched  him  narrowly."  What  won- 
der if  I  can  never  pass  the  church  without  hear- 
ing his  brave  old  ghost  laugh  at  its  ineradicable 
poltroonery  ? 

It  is  curious,  speaking  of  this  tower,  how  large 
a  role  architecture  plays  on  the  stage  of  Paris. 
A  talking  role,  heavy,  grandiloquent,  perfect  in 
the  traditions  of  its  art. 

Here,  for  example  (surely  I  shall  never  reach 
that  studious  garden),  is  the  Fontaine  Saint  Sul- 
pice.  A  young  thing  still,  just  past  its  three  score 
years,  but  worshipful.  Visconti  wrought  it;  and 
the  divinity  of  beauty,  heedless  of  the  four  great 
churchmen  niched  therein,  speaks  through  the 
pagan  perfection  of  its  dripping  stones,  speaks  the 
same  language  that  some  Roman  or  Athenian 
John  Dwight  listened  to  ages  ago.  Oh,  the  per- 
ennial loveliness  of  everything  that  virtuously 
keeps  us  from  doing  the  thing  we  ought  to  do ! 

And  behold! — Saint  Sulpice  himself  stands 
sphinx-like  opposite  and  taunts  me  again  with  its 
unanswered  riddle.  For  there  is  a  riddle  in  that 
colossal  church;  and  I  never  cross  the  square 
without  trying  once  more  to  solve  it. 

It  always  presents  itself,  this  riddle,  after  a 
certain  ritual  of  preparation ;  a  ritual  that  catches 
190 


SPHINXES 

up  and  blends  together  the  human  life  that  stirs 
and  flitters  in  the  square  and  holds  it,  all  fugitive 
and  fretful,  for  contrast  with  that  enduring,  inert 
facade.  This  contrast  of  deciduous  life  with  di- 
uternal  stone  is  not  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx  Sul- 
pice  (though  it  well  might  be),  but  is  merely 
prefatory. 

The  ritual  begins  when,  having  harkened  to  the 
pagan  voice  of  the  fountain,  I  stand  musing  in  the 
centre  of  the  square.  There,  as  one  may  read  over 
the  portal,  is  the  "Mairie  du  VIe  Arrondisement" 
a  quiet  hive  of  officialdom,  hinting  of  marriage, 
birth  and  death  and  the  contact  of  the  bon  bour- 
geois with  his  city.  There  (what  an  antithesis!) 
is  the  empty  Seminary,  symbol  of  the  passing  of 
priestcraft,  staring  at  me  haggardly  out  of  win- 
dows all  vacant  of  life. 

There  is  the  bureau  des  omnibus  and,  waiting 
there,  a  yellow  motor-bus  "Clichy-Odeon"  and 
a  temerarious  crowd  climbing  to  the  imperiale  for 
their  reeling,  clanging,  delirious  journey.  There, 
a  quaint  survival,  is  the  "tortue,"  the  tortoise,  a 
tram  drawn  by  two  sedate,  official-looking  horses 
over  a  serpentining  track  all  the  way  to  far  Au- 
teuil. 

There  is  the  marche  aux  Heurs,  one  of  the 
sweetest  happenings  in  Paris,  touching  the  grey 
191 


GLAMOURIE 

square  with  living  colour  and  a  sense  of  lyric,  in- 
nocent commerce.  And  the  eye,  tuned  by  the 
flower  tints,  is  led  with  an  agreeable  feeling  of 
congruity  to  other  chromatic  symbols  and  details 
of  Parisian  life.  To  the  news  kiosque,  that  har- 
bours the  lurid  journals,  the  flaring  red  and  blue 
comic  papers  and  the  pippen-cheeked  old  woman 
that  sells  them.  To  the  lines  of  yellow  cabs,  the 
rubicund  cabmen  and  the  placid,  blue-caped  and 
be-sworded  agent  de  police.  To  the  colonne 
moresque,  flaming  with  theatre  bills,  pink, 
green,  black  and  kaleidoscopic.  A  medley  of 
colour  this;  and  each  shrill  note  is  vibrant  with 
Paris.  Coquet,  this  incident  in  the  ritual,  very 
coquet! 

Nor,  in  this  ceremony  of  preparation,  is  there 
lacking  human  music.  Children,  black-bloused 
and  belted,  play  shouting  round  the  fountain. 
Bonnes,  bareheaded  and  shawled,  carrying  their 
marketings  in  the  traditional  net,  pass  gossiping 
in  their  crisp  staccato.  A  long-haired  student, 
dear  poseur,  reads  aloud,  smiling  as  he  walks. 
A  grave  man,  decore,  with  his  black  serviette  un- 
der his  arm,  mutters  to  himself,  gesturing  with  a 
gloved  hand;  monsieur,  le  senateur,  perhaps,  on 
his  way  to  the  Luxembourg.  And,  alas!  one 
hears  from  a  bent  figure  that  moves  toward  the 
192 


SPHINXES 

slums  round  the  Marche  Saint  Germain  the  minor 
wail  of  the  ragman  of  Paris: 


Mar-  chand  d'ha  -  bits!  Chif- Tons' 

Then  at  last  when  humanity,  with  its  symbols 
and  colours  and  voices,  has  said  its  say  and  I  turn 
to  the  mighty  facade  of  Saint  Sulpice,  its  mean- 
ing, in  terms  of  life,  is  suddenly  revealed.  ''Be- 
hold me!"  it  seems  to  say,  "I  am  a  monumental 
failure!  Yet  love  me,  O  man  that  gazes  there, 
for  I  am  the  Thought  of  a  Man.  I  am  the  aspira- 
tion of  Servandoni;  I  am  his  dream  and  vision 
wrought  into  stone.  And  since,  all  blunder  and 
defeat  though  I  be,  I  am  Incarnate  Thought,  am 
I  not  therefore  better  than  empty  beauty,  better 
than  your  gothic,  your  Notre  Dame,  your  Amiens, 
your  Cologne,  your  crystallisations  of  a  thousand 
years  of  craftsmanship?  For  they  grew,  century 
by  century,  those  gothic  lovelinesses,  as  stylac- 
tites  grew  in  Fingal's  Cave,  as  frost-work  grows 
on  a  window.  But  I — I  sprang  from  thought  into 
stone  by  the  fiat  of  a  human  will.  And  if  human- 
ity means  anything;  if  your  senator,  student,  cab- 
man, policeman,  child  and  ragman  are  indeed 
significant,  then  their  meaning  and  significance  i$ 


GLAMOURIE 

based  at  last  on  the  thing  they  aspired  to  do.  And 
now,  my  CEdipus,"  concludes  the  Sphinx  Sulpice, 
"which,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  is  the  higher 
— this,  the  shipwrecked  aspiration,  or  that,  the 
victorious  frost  work?" 

That  is  the  riddle  of  Saint  Sulpice.  How  does 
the  reader  answer  it? 

I  was  haunted  by  sphinxes  that  morning !  For, 
brooding  on  my  problem,  I  wandered  up  the  Rue 
Ferou  (where  Athos  lived  as  mousquetaire),  and 
quite  automatically  into  the  Musee  du  Luxem- 
bourg. There,  automatically  still,  I  threaded  that 
throng  of  marble  comeliness,  all  sleek  and  glossy 
from  the  chisel,  and  sought  "Le  Baiser  Supreme." 

Something  other  than  comedy,  that  supreme 
kiss.  A  sphinx,  with  face  and  eyes  of  musing 
unconcern,  is  giving  her  lips  to  the  embrace  of 
an  ecstatic  youth.  Her  arms  or  paws,  tiger-strong 
and  clawed,  are  round  him,  the  talons  already 
deep  in  his  flesh.  We  know,  by  some  cunning  of 
the  sculptor,  that  in  a  second  more  those  paws 
will  contract,  irresistible,  crushing  and  mangling 
the  victim  they  clutch.  Yet  somehow  (and  herein 
lies  the  rare  art  of  the  thing)  one  is  not  sorry  for 
the  misguided,  if  misguided,  youth.  He  is  happy 
for  his  fugitive  moment,  and  the  moment  will  last 
while  the  marble  endures.  Also  (and  herein  is 
194 


^  , 
44 


SPHINXES 

more  art)  we  do  not  hate  the  sphinx.  It  may  be 
our  turn  next  —  tant  pis!  —  but  we  do  not  hate  the 
sphinx.  Detachee  alike  from  the  present  kiss  and 
the  coming  death,  she  is  Nature  herself,  the  Na- 
ture of  dream  and  death,  sunset  and  earthquake. 

What  a  wonder-house,  this  museum!  It  is 
warm,  alive,  vibrant  with  modernity.  And  the 
masters  that  wrought  its  miracles  are  men  like 
me,  environed  by  railways,  electric  lights,  wireless 
telegraphs,  submarines  and  aeroplanes,  and  yet 
holding  fast  to  the  deathless  beauty  and  romance 
of  life.  So  I  go  to  these  high  brothers  of  mine 
for  help  and  inspiration  oftener  than  to  the  an- 
cient gods  of  the  Salle  Carree  and  the  great  gal- 
lery of  the  Louvre.  I  like  to  believe,  in  art  as  in 
all  else,  that  we  moderns  are  adding  our  own  gods 
to  Parnassus. 

But  it  takes  time,  this  Luxembourg,  especially 
if  one  is  obstinately  resolved  to  study  in  its  gar- 
den. For  one  must  visit  (a  pilgrimage  I  never 
omit)  our  St.  Gauden's  medal  to  R.  L.  S.,  look 
at  the  brave,  bright  figure  lying  there  and  read 
again,  what  one  knows  by  heart,  how  "Youth 
now  flies  on  feathered  foot."  Ms  Triplex!  — 
how  a  thought  of  R.  L.  S.  will  lift  one  over  the 
rough  places  of  the  world! 

Then,  after  this  medal,  there  is  Carriere.  "He 
195 


GLAMOURIE 

has  almost  painted  memory,"  said  Sir  Michael; 
and  I  love  him  for  my  Master's  sake  and  his  own 
spirit-eyed  outlook  on  the  world. 

And  there  are  more  statues  and  more  medals 
and  more  pictures,  until  at  last  one  sinks  down 
on  a  divan,  glutted  with  beauty,  throbbing  with 
the  reflexes  of  great  thoughts,  in  a  sort  of  artistic 
apoplexy 

Time  for  lunch  already?  Even  so.  And  I  am 
very  hungry  and  Foyot's  is  near.  "After  lunch- 
eon," I  say  firmly  to  myself,  "I  shall  study." 

Great  is  the  potency  of  a  resolution!  By  one 
o'clock  I  was  strolling  past  the  Fountain  of  the 
Medicis,  with  a  glance  of  affection  at  its  marble 
lovers,  and  found  myself  looking  up  at  the  clock 
of  the  Palais. 

It  struck  one,  the  old  clock ;  and  with  the  clang 
of  the  bell  a  curious  sense  of  accomplishment, 
completion,  fruition  (what  you  will)  flowed 
through  me.  A  circuit  was  closed,  to  borrow  a 
metaphor  from  the  telegraph,  and  I  felt  the  cur- 
rent of  life  and  read  its  message.  For  here,  at 
this  hour,  something  over  a  year  ago,  I  started 
on  that  immemorial  walk  that  led  me  up  the  roar- 
ing Turbigo,  to  the  Hall  of  the  Innocents — and 
Sir  Michael  Burke.  What  a  year! — messages 
throbbed  in  from  its  whole  circuit,  telling  of 
196 


SPHINXES 

friendship,  mystery,  wonder — and  the  thrill  of 
life. 

Hence,  glowing  and  elate,  I  strolled  to  a  pleas- 
ant path  I  know,  paid  for  my  chair  and  tried  to 
study.  In  vain !  First  an  errant  diabolo  crashed 
down  on  my  head,  followed  by  sweetly  lisped 
apologies  from  the  dear  little  girl  that  tossed  it; 
then  a  misguided  hoop  trundled  against  me,  with 
more  childish  excuses;  then  a  ball  ran  under  my 
chair  and  had  to  be  recovered.  Also,  the  air  was 
too  fragrant,  the  sun  too  warm,  the  sap-laden 
branches  too  tremulous  with  new  life,  and  myself 
too  happy  for  work. 

There  was  a  sparrow  on  a  twig  near  me,  a  de- 
scendant perhaps  of  that  white-feathered  mother 
that  I  fed  a  year  ago.  He  was  as  indolent  as  I, 
and  I  took  him  into  my  confidence.  "Not  with 
blinded  eyesight  poring,"  I  observed,  "over  mis- 
erable books."  There  are  few  things  more  com- 
forting than  a  demoralising  maxim  drawn  from 
an  author  of  undisputed  morality! 

Closing  my  international  law  with  a  bang  that 
stirred  the  sparrow  to  flight,  I  walked  cheerfully 
away  for  a  tramp  through  the  woods  of  Meudon  or 
perhaps  (for  nothing  was  settled  except  the  utter 
undesirability  of  books)  for  a  ride  at  Robinson. 

On  some  days  all  plans  trip  and  fall ;  and  such 
197 


GLAMOURIE 

days — at  least  I  have  found  it  so — often  hide  un- 
der their  stumbling  blocks  some  rare  piece  of  good 
luck  or  happiness. 

This  was  such  a  day.  On  my  way  home  an  ad- 
venture befell  me  that,  in  the  sequel,  added  to  the 
social  joys  of  my  life.  Wandering  Seine-ward 
from  the  western  gate  of  the  gardens,  I  followed 
the  Rues  de  Fleurus  and  d'Assas  (our  d'Artagnan 
fought  Jussac  hereabouts)  to  the  quaintly  named 
Cherche-Midi.  Then  (surely  no  lover  of  Paris 
will  begrudge  me  the  joy  of  writing  these  dear 
names)  across  the  Carrefour  du  Croix- Rouge  to 
the  Rue  de  Crenelle.  There,  at  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  des  Saints-Peres,  I  overtook  a  throng  of  ex- 
cited men  carrying  some  burden  I  could  not  see. 
Pity  and  horror  showed  on  their  faces,  and  I  knew 
that  I  had  chanced  on  one  of  the  dark  tragedies 
of  the  Quarter. 

"What  has  happened?"  I  asked. 

"0  mon  Dieu!  it's  a  poor  devil  that  fell  from 
the  third  story,"  said  one. 

"No;  fourth  story,"  said  another. 

"And,"  said  a  third,  taking  me  earnestly  by 
the  arm,  "he  is  an  American.  Panvre  gargon! — 
dying  so  far  from  his  native  land." 

"An  American!"  I  exclaimed.     "Let  me  see 
him.     I  am  an  American  too." 
198 


SPHINXES 

The  crowd  parted  with  a  sympathising  murmur 
and  I  saw  the  victim.  His  face  was  deathly  white, 
save  where  the  blood  was  flowing  from  a  hideous 
gash  in  his  forehead;  and  he  hung  limp  with 
dangling  hands  between  the  bearers.  As  these 
men  seemed  completely  unnerved  and  shockingly 
awkward,  I  at  once  took  command,  picked  my 
fellow-countryman  up  in  my  arms  and  carried  him 
into  the  pharmacy  at  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard. 

There  I  laid  him  on  the  floor,  begged  that  a 
doctor  be  brought  and  proceeded  to  feel  his  pulse. 
Just  as  I  had  found,  with  surprise,  that  his  pulse 
was  full  and  strong,  the  injured  man  opened  his 
eyes,  smiled  at  me,  winked,  and  remarked  quietly 
in  French  as  he  got  on  his  feet. 

"Never  mind  about  the  doctor,  man  vieux,  but 
come  and  have  a  drink  with  us  at  the  Magots!" 

And  a  shout  of  laughter  rose  from  that  throng 
of  horror-stricken,  sympathising  students.  The 
whole  tragedy  was  an  elaborate  blague,  the  re- 
sult of  a  little  red  paint  and  a  great  deal  of  clever, 
impromptu  acting.  It  was  the  final  scene  in  the 
initiation  of  an  architectural  nonveau  in  the  Ate- 
lier Laloux.  My  role  therein  was  the  jest  of  the 
Quarter  for  a  week. 

I  accepted  the  nouveau's  invitation  and,  a  gory 
object,  he  was  carried  by  the  Frenchmen,  once 
199 


GLAMOURIE 

more  shocked  and  piteous,  to  the  cafe  "Aux  Deux 
Magots."  The  hour  I  passed  there  in  mild  con- 
viviality was  the  gateway  to  my  acquaintance  with 
Lockwood,  my  ensanguined  friend  (who  has  noth- 
ing more  to  do  with  this  story),  and  also  to  that 
coterie  of  American  students  of  architecture  from 
whom  I  learnt,  during  our  bavardages  at  the  good 
old  "Magots,"  all  that  I  know  of  the  Quartier 
Latin  and  the  licole  des  Beaux-Arts.  Perhaps, 
if  they  come  to  read  this,  they  may  find  here  and 
there  bits  of  stolen  thunder.  For  architecture,  as 
they  talked  and  wrangled,  took  on  new  meanings 
and  the  very  technology  of  their  craft  helped  my 
eyes  to  see  Paris,  the  articulate,  artistic  Paris 
that  speaks  through  its  historic  stones.  This  was 
the  good  luck  hidden  under  the  stumbling 
block. 

But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Sir  Michael 
Burke?  You  shall  see. 

It  was  too  late  after  the  a  boire  at  the  "Mag- 
ots," to  go  out  to  the  country;  and  I  therefore 
went  home  and  really  did  study  hard  till 
evening. 

After  dinner,  as  I  was  relaxing  over  a  chapter 

of  the  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne  (two  hundred  and 

sixty-six  blessings  on  Dumas,  one  for  every  witty, 

manly,  human  chapter!)  the  gargon  handed  me 

200 


SPHINXES 

a  petit-bleu.  The  address  was  printed  in  sprawl- 
ing, childish  capital  letters  and  the  postmark  was 
Bureau  52,  Mont  Parnasse. 

Within,  the  printing  continued,  but  was  ex- 
quisitely minute;  and  this  is  what  it  said: 

"Jack,  dear  Jack,  reconsider  the  choice  I  sang 
you  at  Charing  Cross.  You  were  wrong,  pris- 
matically  wrong,  as  I  shall  one  day  show  you. 
And  beware,  O  quixotic  Jack,  of  blood-boltered 
students  in  our  dear  Quartier  Latin.  What 
a  good  laugh,  from  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  I 
had  at  your  expense!  And  Jack,  O  CEdipus 
mine!  here  is  a  new  riddle  for  your  bursting  ig- 
norance. Listen ! 

"On  the  morning  after  the  tragic  death  of  Sir 
Michael  Burke  you  sat  by  the  pond  near  the 
Pavilion  de  Flore,  smiling  with  the  springtime 
and  the  young  love  that  circumambulated  near. 
Remember?  Then  you  opened  your  paper,  you 
started;  and  horror  and  dismay  distorted  your 
honest  Yankee  countenance.  Remember?  Then 
(a  sorry  tribute  to  the  virtues  of  your  deceased 
friend)  you  became  radiant  and  shouted  to  the 
astonished  lovers,  'Dieu  vous  benisse,  mes  enfants! 
Mol  aussi,  je  suis  heureux!'  Remember?  And 
you  were  alone,  Jack,  quite  alone,  save  for  those 
Parisian  sweethearts.  Remember?  Now,  my 
14  201 


GLAMOUR1E 

CEdipus,  face  your  Sphinx !  How  do  I  know  all 
this? 

"By  the  way  (but  don't  let  this  distract  you 
from  my  riddle),  my  dear  Golden  is  coming  to 
Paris,  with  Miss  Warboy,  at  my  suggestion. 
Meet  them  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  Saturday  eve- 
ning at  9:15.  They  will  put  up,  till  they  find 
apartments,  at  the  Hotel  des  Saints-Peres.  Love 
to  Prism !  Silence !  On  guard !  I  put  my  dearest 
under  your  protection." 

That  was  all — and  quite  enough  too! 

O  Paris! — Paris  of  my  dear  Master — Paris 
coquet,  super-feminine,  mystical — you  held  no 
happier  creature  that  night  than  your  whilom 
Noun-man,  suddenly  plunged  into  a  mysterious, 
adjective  wonder- world. 

Happy?  Yes;  yet  that  night  I  fell  asleep  ask- 
ing dreamily  why  I  was  so  happy  after  all.  Could 
it  be  the  mere  possession  of  a  sphinx-like  prob- 
lem? 


XIV 

THE  EARL  OF  ATHLONE 

BORDERED  in  portentous  black,  it  lies  before 
me  now,  this  evidence  that  I  once  had  a  Peer  of 
England  on  my  visiting  list :  It  told  me  that  the 
Earl  of  Athlone  was  waiting  below. 

"That  will  be  Sir  Michael's  half-brother,  the 
Reverend  Ernest  Burke,"  I  thought  to  myself, 
"whom  Golden  dislikes.  I  wonder  if  I  am  'on 
guard'  against  him?" 

"Faites-entrer!"  I  said  to  the  gargon. 

Glancing  round  the  room  to  see  that  all  was  in 
order,  Sir  Michael's  letter,  received  the  evening 
before,  caught  my  eye.  A  copy  was  now  lodged 
in  the  "matchless  memory,"  and  a  whim  of  se- 
crecy came  to  me  to  destroy  the  original. 

"A  whiff  of  incense  for  his  Lordship,"  I  whis- 
pered as  I  lighted  the  carte-pneumatique  and  held 
it  flaming  over  the  hearth.  Just  as  the  last  flake 
of  charred  ash  dropped  from  my  fingers,  the  Earl 
entered. 

203 


GLAMOURIE 

He  was  very  dark,  the  heritage,  so  common  in 
Ireland,  from  some  remote  Spanish  ancestor  of  his 
mother.  His  face  was  touched  with  the  pulpit 
and  gastronomy,  and  his  mouth  and  pose  were 
those  of  self-indulgent  middle  life.  He  did  not 
offer  to  shake  hands,  but  bowed  stiffly. 

"You  are  Mr.  Dwight,  I  presume,"  he  said,  "a 
recent  acquaintance  of  my  unfortunate  brother." 
His  inflection  suggested  that  I  was  one  of  the 
things  in  which  Sir  Michael  was  "unfortunate." 

"Recent?"  I  answered.  "Yes,  perhaps,  as  one 
counts  time.  But  friendship  has  three  dimen- 
sions." 

He  regarded  me  unsmilingly  with  raised  eye- 
brows. 

"Friendship,  unlike  time,"  I  explained,  "has 
depth  and  breadth  as  well  as  length.  Pray  sit 
down." 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said  slowly  and  with  unnec- 
essary distinctness,  "I  was  about  to  do  so." 

"So!"  I  thought,  "that  is  your  role.  You  are 
chez  vous.  I  am  a  recent  acquaintance.  Nous 
verrons!  I  begin  to  suspect  that  I  am  'on  guard' 
against  the  Earl." 

"I  fear,"  I  remarked,  to  emphasise  my  position 
as  host,  "that  there  is  an  annoying  smell  of  smoke 
in  the  room.  I  have  been  burning — er — incense." 
204 


THE  EARL  OF  ATHLONE 

"Incense?  I  had  not  observed  it.  And  now, 
Mr.  Dwight,  let  me  state  my  object  in  visiting 
this  city." 

He  put  an  accent  of  annihilating  disapproval 
into  the  words  "this  city,"  paused,  and  then  con- 
tinued : 

"That  object,  as  you  will  have  surmised,  is  to 
take  possession  of  the  effects  of  my  deceased 
brother.  It  only  remains,  then,  for  me  to  thank 
you  for  the  vigilance  with  which  you  have  guarded 
them  and — er " 

"For  me  to  take  my  leave,"  I  completed  his 
phrase. 

"Oh,  at  your  convenience;  quite  at  your  con- 
venience." 

"You  probably  do  not  know,"  said  I,  "that  Sir 
Michael,  the  day  before  his  death,  transferred  to 
me  his  effects  here?" 

"Yes;  a  Mr.  Wizzicks,  my  brother's  lawyer, 
told  me  of  this  alleged  transfer" — same  annihilat- 
ing emphasis — "and  even  showed  me  a  copy  of 
the  instrument  that  purported  to  carry  it  into 
effect.  But " 

"Here  is  the  original,"  I  interrupted,  handing 
it  to  him. 

He  read  it  deliberately,  slowly  folded  it  and 
put  it  in  his  breast  pocket. 
205 


GLAMOURIE 

"Of  course,"  he  calmly  remarked,  "I  shall  not 
permit  this,  or  the  mad  testamentary  whims  of 
my  late  brother,  to  be  effectuated." 

I  remember  that  my  father  once  told  me  how, 
on  being  subject  to  some  impertinence,  a  mist 
came  over  his  eyes  so  that  he  could  not  see  his 
antagonist.  It  was  so  with  me  now.  For  an 
instant  a  grey  fog  closed  round  me,  in  which 
wavered  the  tall,  glacial  figure  of  the  Earl.  As 
it  passed,  I  rose  to  my  feet,  flung  open  the  win- 
dow, and  the  clang  of  the  trams  and  clatter  of 
the  street  filled  the  room. 

"There,"  I  said,  "that  will  drive  out  the  smell 
of  the  incense,  which  I  fear  has  annoyed  you. 
And  look  at  the  view;  is  it  not  beautiful?  It  is 
here  at  this  window  that  your  dear  brother  loved 
to  stand  looking  out  on  his  river,  his  Louvre,  his 
Paris." 

And  I  essayed  to  make  one  of  Sir  Michael's 
grand  gestures,  repeating,  "Paris!" 

The  Earl  stalked  to  the  window.  While  he 
was  looking  out  I  went  to  the  door,  locked  it  and 
put  the  key  in  my  pocket.  The  click  of  the  lock 
was  inaudible  amid  the  noises  of  the  quai. 

"Paris,"  remarked  the  Earl  (his  tone  suggested 
an  anathema  maranatha)  as  he  turned  from  the 
window ;  "I  fear  his  unnatural  preference  for  this 
206 


THE  EARL  OF  ATHLONE 

city  had  much  to  do  with  his  spiritual,  moral  and 
mental  retrogression." 

"Pray  stop!"  I  said  very  softly,  shutting  the 
window.  "I  allow  no  one  in  my  presence  to  speak 
ill  of  Michael  Burke,  the  purest,  freest,  bravest, 
sweetest  soul  that  ever  trod  this  earth." 

"You  forget,  Sir,  that  I  am  his  brother." 

"You  have  thus  far,"  I  retorted,  always  very 
gently,  "given  me  no  reason  to  remember  it.  You 
have  refused  to  give  effect  to  his  latest  wishes; 
you  have  even  (if  I  understood  your  hint)  de- 
termined to  disregard  the  charitable  provisions 
of  his  will." 

"If  you  allude  to  the  exorbitant  bequests,"  he 
answered  in  that  cold,  level  voice  of  his,  "to  cer- 
tain fanatic  societies  and  to  a  highly  objectionable 
old  Irish  woman — yes !  I  shall  have  his  will  de- 
clared void  on  the  ground  of  his  mental  incom- 
petency." 

The  Earl,  while  saying  this,  had  drawn  off  his 
black  gloves  and  sat  down  at  Sir  Michael's  desk. 
My  resolution  was  now  taken  and  I  spoke. 

"You  will  oblige  me,"  I  said,  "by  not  sullying 
those  memorials  of  Sir  Michael  with  your  clerical 
fingers." 

"Sir?"  he  said  portentously,  rising  from  the 
chair  and  drawing  himself  up. 
207 


GLAMOURIE 

"I  will  vary  the  phrase,"  I  continued.  "You 
will  oblige  me  by  not  profaning  those  holy  relics 
with  your  unbrotherly  hands." 

"Do  you  mean,  Sir,  that  you  deny  my  rights 
here?"  His  voice  was  calm  no  longer. 

"Emphatically!"  I  answered.  "I  shall  not 
permit  you  to  touch  anything  further  in  this 
room  except  your  hat,  your  gloves  and  your 
umbrella." 

His  deliberate  manner  vanished,  as  he  gathered 
together  these  permitted  articles. 

"And  the  door-knob !"  I  added,  as  a  polite  after- 
thought. 

"You  will  hear  of  this  again,  Sir,"  he  said 
haughtily.  "I  presume  there  is  a  law  in  France." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  tried  to  open  it.  On 
finding  it  locked,  he  turned  angrily  to  me  and 
thundered, 

"Open  that  door  at  once!" 

"For  a  price,"  I  said  very  gently. 

"Open  that  door!" 

"For  that  paper  of  mine  in  your  pocket/' 

"I  shall  not  bargain  with  you,  Sir." 

I  removed  my  coat,  waistcoat  and  braces,  do- 
ing all  with  intentional  slowness. 

"Your  Lordship,"  I  said,  as  I  rolled  up  my 
sleeves,  "will  do  well  to  imitate  me.  You  look  to 
208 


THE  EARL  OF  ATHLONE 

be  a  strong  man;  but  I  wish  no  advantage  of 
dress.  So  prepare  yourself." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?    Are  you  also  mad  ?" 

"I  mean,"  I  answered,  "that  I  am  going  to  take 
my  paper  from  you  by  force.  So  get  ready !" 

He  turned  rather  white. 

"My  sacred  calling,"  he  said,  drawing  my  bill 
of  sale  from  his  pocket,  "and  the  dignity  of  my  po- 
sition alike  prevent  me  from  the  vulgarity  of  phys- 
ical violence.  Here  is  your  paper !" 

He  threw  it  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

As  he  did  so  Prism's  clock  gave  three  gentle, 
silver  strokes  and  the  great  cat's  head  parted  the 
curtains  and  looked  out. 

Now  Prism  (is  not  this  a  common  defect  in  the 
formalist?)  was  no  judge  of  character.  He 
walked  over  to  the  Earl,  seated  himself  on  the 
bill  of  sale  and  primly  held  out  a  courteous  paw. 

I  laughed — I  could  not  help  it — and  the  laugh- 
ter brought  evil  to  Prism.  His  Lordship  the  Earl 
of  Athlone  kicked  the  poor  beast  in  the  head. 

There  was  a  spitting  scamper  of  brindled  fur 
across  the  room;  and  Master  Prism,  no  longer  a 
formalist,  but  a  frightened  cat  with  a  tremendous 
tail,  crouched  growling  under  the  table,  his  eyes 
glaring  green  in  the  shadow. 

Those  gleaming  eyes  revenged  him.  They 
209 


GLAMOURIE 

flashed  into  my  memory  that  tale  told  me  in  the 
glinting  starlight  of  the  Suffolk  lane  and  Sir  Mi- 
chael's wild  words  to  the  surgeon. 

I  walked  right  up  to  the  Earl. 

"Listen  to  me,  you  cur,"  I  cried,  "and  look 
into  my  eyes.  Unless  you  obey  the  will  of  Sir 
Michael  Burke  an  evil  thing  will  befall  you.  If 
you  annoy  me  here,  if  I  learn  that  you  have  be- 
gun your  attempt  to  impeach  his  bequests,  I  shall 
publicly  horsewhip  you  in  front  of  your  London 
club.  I  swear  to  do  this,  and  more,  man,  more, 
by  the  memory  of  your  dead  brother!  Now  go 
— and  remember !" 

And  I  unlocked  and  opened  the  door. 

The  Earl,  without  a  word,  walked  out  of  the 
room  and  (I  am  glad  to  record)  out  of  this  his- 
tory. He  made  no  further  attempt  to  disturb 
me;  and,  as  I  took  pains  to  learn  from  Mr.  Wiz- 
zicks,  punctually  paid  Sir  Michael's  bequests. 
Tant  mieuxl 

Long  after,  I  heard  that  he  had  been  in  love 
(after  his  fashion)  with  Golden,  had  persecuted 
her  with  his  attentions  and  had  finally  (he  was 
a  cur)  caused  a  notice  to  be  inserted  in  a  local 
paper  announcing  their  engagement.  It  was  this 
notice  that  drew  Sir  Michael  to  Ipswich  to  "con- 
sult Mother  Mag,"  who  suggested  (God  bless  the 

210 


dear  old  woman!)  that  Golden  should  visit 
Paris. 

I  was  not  sorry,  after  hearing  this,  that  I  had 
been  so  gentle  and  conciliatory  with  his  Lordship. 
After  all,  he  was  a  blessing,  though  elaborately 
disguised. 

He  was  killed  in  the  hunting  field  two  or  three 
years  later ;  and  with  him  the  title  became  extinct. 
So  much  for  the  Earl  of  Athlone. 

"Prism,"  I  remarked,  as  I  petted  him  back  to 
purring  contentment,  "do  you  realise  the  fruits 
of  your  truculence?  Your  savage  eyes  have 
pledged  me  to  horsewhip  the  brother  of  your  la- 
mented Master !  And  publicly  too !  Aren't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself?" 

Prism  purred. 

"Cat,"  I  continued,  after  an  interval  of  thought 
devoted  to  Sir  Michael  and  his  brother,  "Cat,  I 
do  not  believe  in  heredity !  It  is  the  gently  flowing 
stream  whereon  we  float,  which  the  strong  soul 
can  breast  or  cross  or  use  at  will.  Only  the  drift- 
ers call  it  fate." 

But  Prism  continued  to  purr. 


XV 

THE   COMING  OF   GOLDEN 

ALL  things  come  at  last,  even  the  trysting 
hour. 

A  misleading  phrase  this! — but  let  no  one  be 
misled.  Let  no  one  read  a  word  of  love  between 
the  lines  of  this  chapter. 

Consider ! — in  all  my  grey  New  England  days 
no  feminine  influence  had  touched  my  life.  My 
mother  died  while  I  was  but  a  child;  and  I  had 
no  sister. 

There  were  girls,  of  course,  at  the  tennis 
club,  on  the  skating  pond,  in  the  ballrooms. 
But  these,  bits  of  colour,  form,  vitality  or  chat- 
ter, seemed  to  count  not  at  all  in  my  scheme  of 
life. 

I  think  I  know  now  why  this  was  so.  When 
I  was  a  lad,  just  nearing  manhood,  I  came  one 
evening  into  my  father's  room  to  bid  him  good- 
night. I  found  him  on  his  knees  before  my 
mother's  picture. 

212 


THE  COMING  OF  GOLDEN 

That  was  all.  But  when  I  looked  into  his  face 
next  morning  I  understood  many  things.  It  had 
opened  like  a  book  to  me,  that  worn  and  beautiful 
face,  wherein  I  read  holy  memories,  perfect  trust 
and  love's  serene  triumph  over  death.  And  when 
I  saw  it  last,  after  his  time  of  waiting  on  earth 
was  over,  that  look  still  rested  there.  That  was 
my  lesson  in  love. 

And,  with  that  lesson  in  my  heart,  I  came  to 
Paris,  untouched  by  woman's  love,  but  dreaming 
gracious  dreams. 

And  now  Golden  was  coming  to  Sir  Michael, 
and  I  somehow  blended  with  my  own  placid  emo- 
tions the  passion  of  my  dear  friend  until  (I 
laughed  at  myself  for  the  foolish  fancy)  it  almost 
seemed  that  I  was  a  lover  indeed  and  that  my 
fancy  was  real. 

Now  that  none  can  be  misled,  I  repeat  my 
opening  phrase  (hear  how  different,  almost  hu- 
morous it  sounds ! )  and  say  that  all  things  come 
at  last,  even  the  trysting  hour ! 

And,  slave  to  this  law,  came  Saturday  night  at 
the  close  of  a  tense,  expectant  day. 

The  Gare  du  Nord! — unlovely  and  triste  by 

sunlight ;  a  thing  of  grim  Doric  repetitions.    "It 

has  caught,"  Sir  Michael  once  said,  "the  sadness 

of  those  that  leave  Paris.    It  forever  sees  the  sad 

213 


GLAMOURIE 

faces  of  the  poor  devils  that  go,  and  only  the 
beatified  backs  of  those  that  come." 

That  trysting  Saturday  evening,  however, 
brought  a  smile  to  its  grey  facade.  Lights  glowed 
expectantly  from  within  and  flared  cheerfully  un- 
der the  shining  marquise.  The  eye  was  led  pleas- 
antly up  the  Ionic  pilasters  to  the  gay  volutes  of 
their  capitals;  and  up,  higher  still,  to  the  nine 
great  cities,  colossal  woman-statues,  silhouetted 
against  the  northern  sky.  Grim  enough  by  day- 
light, as  I  knew,  these  huge  robed  figures,  but 
^  that  night  (O  the  glamour  of  the  trysting!)  they 
were  something  vaguely  Olympian — the  nine 
Muses  perhaps — something  at  any  rate  that  her- 
alded to  one  John  Dwight  the  onward  rush  from 
Calais  of  the  "neuf  heures-quinze." 

A  word  as  to  the  psychic  state  of  this  same 
John  Dwight — an  introspective,  egotistic  word, 
to  be  sure,  but  essential,  let  me  assure  the  reader, 
to  the  history  of  Sir  Michael  Burke.  To  avoid  a 
forest  of  I's  it  shall  be  told  in  the  third  person. 

This  John  Dwight,  then,  had  an  odd  emotion 
as  he  stood  for  a  moment  marvelling  at  the  un- 
wonted cheerfulness  of  the  station.  An  old  emo- 
tion too — something  that  had  touched  him  again 
and  again  in  boyhood  and  manhood  when,  alone 
in  deep  woodlands,  alone  on  heathered  hills,  alone 
214 


THE  COMING  OF  GOLDEN 

by  the  great  sea,  he  felt  a  sudden  glow  and  rush 
of  nature,  or  of  That  behind  nature,  into  his  soul. 
He  was  too  shy  to  speak  of  it  to  others,  this  John 
Dwight ;  but  he  gave  it  a  simple  name  and  found 
his  comfort  in  it.  And  (how  strangely!)  this 
thing  of  the  woods,  the  hills  and  the  sea  flowed 
then  into  his  soul  from  the  facade  of  the  Gare  du 
Nord !  And,  with  a  persistence  unknown  before, 
it  lasted,  gently  glowing,  through  the  rest  of  that 
evening.  So  much  for  the  emotions  of  John 
Dwight.  Would  Sir  Michael  explain  them  as 
N.  stirrings  of  latent  Yankee  mysticism? 

Ah,  the  glamour  of  the  trysting !  Within,  the 
great  spaces  were  a-throb  with  the  music  of  steam 
Vui  — that  mighty  Ninth  Symphony  of  modernity — 
resolving  discords  of  clanking  iron,  the  measured 
beat  of  mechanic  hearts,  the  panting  and  shrilling 
of  the  engines.  And  through  it  all,  lyric  and 
heartening,  I  heard  the  song  of  light,  the  hum  and 
crackle  of  the  wasting  carbons.  A  fitting  wel- 
come this,  for  Golden  Burke ! 

"Which  voie  for  the  9:15?"  I  asked  an  official. 

"Voie  dix-neuf,"  he  answered. 

Voie    dix-neuf. — thenceforth    I    saw   nothing 
more — nothing  but  the  two  gleaming  rails  that 
ran  through  the  dusk  of  the  station  and  out  into 
the  crimson  Pleiades  of  signal  lights  beyond. 
215 


GLAMOURIE 

They  piqued  my  fancy,  those  lights.  I  could 
not,  as  they  blinked  and  changed  from  red  to 
white,  from  white  to  red,  imagine  how  Golden 
could  thread  that  constellation.  Miss  Warboy, 
whom  I  pictured  as  a  tall,  gaunt,  soldierly  person, 
might  succeed;  but  Golden,  used  only  to  the 
friendly  Suffolk  starlight,  would  be  lost  there. 

Yet  how  easy  it  was  when  the  belated  head- 
light of  that  blessed  9:15  snaked  its  way  through 
the  maze  of  lamps  and  the  train  rolled  into  the 
station. 

All  things  come  at  last,  even  the  trysting  hour ! 

A  silent  handclasp 

How  her  black  becomes  her! 

"Miss  Warboy,"  she  said,  "this  is  Mr.  Dwight, 
an  old  friend  of  poor  Cousin  Michael."  Miss 
Warboy,  then,  did  not  share  our  secret. 

Miss  Warboy  was  not  soldierly.  She  was  a 
sweet-voiced  little  gentlewoman  of  perhaps  fifty, 
with  white  hair  and  confiding  eyes. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Dwight,"  she 
said  with  a  note  of  sympathy  in  her  voice.  "It 
is  odd,  isn't  it — but  I  never  met  Sir  Michael.  I 
was  always  absent  during  his  rare  visits  to 
Ipswich.  But  I  know  how  you  must  sorrow  for 
the  loss  of  such  a  friend." 

I  said  something,  as  mournfully  as  possible,  as 
to  the  virtues  of  the  deceased. 
216 


THE  COMING  OF  GOLDEN 

"Yes,"  she  agreed  in  a  tone  of  musing  retro- 
spect, "he  was  very  thoughtful.  He  sent  me  my 
punto  ricamato  a  maglia  quadra." 

Golden  came  to  my  aid.  I  may  have  looked 
puzzled. 

"Miss  Warboy  is  an  amateur  of  old  lace,"  she 
explained,  "and  the  words  she  just  used  are  prob- 
ably some  subtle  technicality." 

"I  thought,"  I  admitted,  "that  Miss  Warboy 
was  quoting  Dante." 

We  had  now  passed  the  incurious  officers  of  the 
octroi  and  gained  our  omnibus  de  famille.  Leav- 
ing Miss  Warboy  therein,  I  went  with  Golden  to 
the  douane.  This,  I  may  explain,  is  a  gentle  sort 
of  customs-house,  a  place  without  terrors  to  such 
Americans  as  have  passed  through  the  fiery  pur- 
gatory of  their  own. 

"Miss  Warboy,"  continued  Golden,  "is  com- 
piling a  monumental  book  on  old  laces.  Indeed, 
that  is  what  brings  her  to  Paris — that  and  me." 

"Lapis,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "lapis;  violets 
with  the  dew  on  them ;  heartsease  after  the  rain." 

But  what  I  said  was,  "Give  me  your  bulletin 
de  bagages.  Number  1063.  We  must  stand  by 
that  counter  with  a  3  over  it.  Have  you  heard 
from  Sir  Michael?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "a  letter  came,  all  in 

15  2I7 


GLAMOURIE 

printing,  soon  after  his  tragedy,  urging  me  to 
come  to  Paris,  which  I  answered,  appointing  to- 
day." 

"But  how  did  you  address  him?" 

"Poste  restante" 

"In  his  own  name?" 

"Oh,  no;  he  is  at  present  Madame  Veuve 
Tequi." 

"That  bears  out  my  theory  as  to  the  manner 
of  his  disappearance." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "for  I  could  not  quite  ex- 
plain it.  I  trusted  Mother  Mag's  instinct." 

"Lapis,"  I  thought  again,  "lapis;  heartsease 
after  a  shower;  violets  wet  with  dew." 

But  what  I  answered  was,  "I  fancy  this  is  what 
happened.  Sir  Michael  took  passage  for  New 
York  in  his  own  name  and  also  a  ticket  from 
Southampton  to  Cherbourg.  Having  concentrated 
the  attention  of  the  purser  and  others  on  his  own 
personality,  he  went  to  his  stateroom,  disguised 
himself  as  a  lady  passenger  and  reappeared.  As 
soon  as  he  found  himself  alone  on  the  after-deck, 
he  rushed  shrieking  on  the  bridge  and  gave  a 
categorical  description  of  his  own  death." 

"But  why  did  he  pretend  to  die,  Mr.  D wight?" 

I  could  only  shrug  my  shoulders;  and  in  the 
moment  of  wondering  silence  that  ensued  the 
218 


THE  COMING  OF  GOLDEN 

whispers  of  "lapis,  violets  and  heartsease"  began 
again. 

Golden  interrupted  these  whispers. 

"Haven't  you  heard  from  Cousin  Michael?" 

I  told  her  of  his  cryptic  letter  that  announced 
her  coming  and  his  mysterious  knowledge  of  my 
doings  by  the  pond  of  the  Tuileries.  When  I  had 
finished,  she  silently  handed  me  a  telegram. 

"Thank  Jack,"  I  read  aloud,  "for  heather  sent 
in  Prism's  name." 

I  felt  dazed. 

"But,  Miss  Golden,"  I  said,  "the  heather— the 
heather — why,  I  took  it  myself  to  your  hotel  and 
attached  a  little  card  of  welcome  from  Prism. 
How  did  Sir  Michael  know?" 

She  too  looked  dazed  for  an  instant  and  there 
came  into  her  eyes  and  face  an  expression  that 
brought  Sir  Michael's  words  to  me  again:  "Her 
soul  is  questing,  questing!  Wings!  Dwight, 
wings!" 

She  glanced  over  the  douane. 

"Isn't  it  strange,  Mr.  Dwight,  that  such  a  mes- 
sage should  reach  us  here?" 

Indeed  there  seemed  no  place  in  that  room,  on 
the  long,  serpentining  counters,  amid  the  luggage, 
porters  and  officials,  for  any  but  mechanic  hap- 
penings. 

219 


GLAMOURIE 

"True,"  I  admitted,  "but  the  psychical  passes 
everywhere  free  of  duty."  « 

These  words  ended  our  conversation.  Our 
luggage  was  at  last  examined  and  we  rejoined 
Miss  Warboy.  A  few  moments  more  and  our 
omnibus  swung  into  the  Rue  Lafayette  and 
we  were  jolted  and  clamoured  into  speechless- 
ness 

It  is  a  perverse  fate  that  makes  the  stranger's 
Paris  begin  with  this  Rue  Lafayette.  The  cockers 
love  it  and  give  their  bourgeois  a  full  kilometer 
of  its  discomforts.  A  straight,  descending  slope, 
illpaved,  it  runs  parallel  to  my  old  friend  the  roar- 
ing Turbigo.  Like  the  life  of  its  great  namesake, 
it  is  long  and  filled  with  clamour.  Yet  I  found 
something  tuneful  in  its  bellowings  that  Saturday 
night;  something  fugue-like  in  the  modulations 
and  repetitions  of  its  cacophonies. 

Then  a  change  to  the  quiet  wood-pavement  of 
the  Rue  Druot  and  across  the  flashing  Boulevards 
(forgive  the  dull  enumeration,  patient  reader;  I 
love  them  all  so — c'est  plus  fort  que  moi!}  and 
along  the  Rue  Richelieu  and  past  the  Comedie 
Franchise. 

"Monet-Sully  is  playing  there  to-night,"  I  said, 
"in  'Marion  Delorme.'  " 

And  through  the  guichet  of  the  Louvre,  the 
220 


THE  COMING  OF  GOLDEN 

Place  du   Carrousel,  the  other  guichet,  then — 
halte! 

A  motor-bus  was  en  panne — which  means 
stalled — in  the  middle  of  the  Pont  des  Saints- 
Peres.  The  creature  had  placed  itself  sideways, 
by  some  perverse  whim,  and  traffic  was  blocked. 

"There,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  right,  "is  Sir 
Michael's  old  room  overlooking  his  river — the 
river  he  loved  so  well." 

"No  wonder  he  loved  it,"  said  Golden  softly. 
And  then,  after  a  pause,  she  added,  "for  it  wills 
to  be  beautiful." 

She  had  found  the  right  word.  The  river  was 
alive  that  night.  A  blustering  wind  smote  the  re- 
flections of  its  myriad  lights  and  shattered  them 
into  swirling  patches,  lichen-like  and  luminous. 
Under  these  fretted  surface  shinings  and  through 
the  inky  interspaces  between  flowed  the  river, 
swollen  by  Burgundian  rains — flowed  like  a 
mighty  volition  moving  to  a  foreseen  end.  And 
the  buffets  of  the  wind,  the  play  of  the  lights  and 
the  tossing  eddies  below  the  bridge  were  mimes 
and  puppets  in  a  drama  of  beauty — a  drama  illus- 
trating that  majestic  volitional  flow.  Eternal  birth 
and  death,  eternal  time  and  change,  and  the  un- 
resting will  below — that  was  the  parable  of  the 
river ! 

221 


GLAMOURIE 

"Thank  jrdu,"  I  said  gratefully;  "it  is  a  little 
poem,  that  phrase  of  yours." 

Presently  the  omnibus  recovered  from  its  panne 
— but  ho! — let  the  Coming  of  Golden  end  here, 
facing  the  river  that  our  great  Master  loved,  the 
river  that  wills  to  be  beautiful! 


XVI 

THE   HUNDRED   DAYS 

I  HAD  written  at  the  head  of  this  chapter  the 
classic  tag  "Et  in  Arcadia  ego."  That  was  to 
hint,  as  I  have  done  before,  at  the  colour  and  mood 
of  my  biographic  soul. 

Later,  to  mark  fairly  the  passing  of  many  days 
(a  detail  of  more  importance  for  the  nonce  than 
my  psychic  tints),  I  chose  the  more  prosaic  title. 

But  it  was  strange!  "And  in  Arcadia,  I" — 
as  I  wrote  those  lyric  words  a  vista  opened,  a 
vista  leading  through  the  known  and  the  remem- 
bered out  into  the  Beyond. 

Heretofore,  in  this  chronicle,  I  have  crawled 
from  memory  to  memory,  as  one  astray  in  falling 
snow  at  night  might  grope  his  way  homewards, 
step  by  step,  by  his  own  fast-filling  footprints. 
And  each  memory,  so  lost  was  I  in  the  unwonted 
task,  focussed  all  my  faculties  on  itself  as  I  es- 
sayed to  trace  its  outlines. 

To  be  sure,  I  knew,  in  some  vague,  dumb  fash- 
223 


GLAMOURIE 

ion,  whither  these  memories  led;  but  the  knowl- 
edge was  the  mere  background  of  thought,  the 
grain  of  the  canvas  showing  under  the  scumblings 
of  the  colour. 

Now  all  is  changed :  I  see  through  to  the  end. 
A  century  of  days  lies  ahead  and  in  them  three 
figures  live  beautifully,  moving  on  to  their  pre- 
destined goal.  There  is  Golden,  questing,  quest- 
ing— the  Chimere  Eternelle — ever  growing  higher 
and  stranger.  "Wings,  Dwight!  Wings!"  Ah, 
God ! — There  is  Sir  Michael,  childlike,  whimsical, 
mysterious,  leading  us  on  to  the  Hour  of  Unveil- 
ing !  There  is  Paris,  his  Paris,  brooding  about  us 
and  becoming  a  thing  of  beckonings  and  whisper- 
ings and  wings,  haunted  by  Arcadian  dreams ! 

A  century  of  days !  I  can  count  them  all,  I  can 
see  them  all,  from  the  night  of  the  Coming  of 
Golden  to  that  great  morning  on  the  Lanterne  de 
Diogene.  And  they  are  so  bright,  so  sharply 
limned,  so  linked  together,  that  the  work  before 
me  (if  such  a  joy  be  work!)  is  facile.  Pen  and 
memory  and  thought  move  together  in  glib  co- 
operation. 

There  is  only  embarras  de  choix!    To  sift,  to 

winnow  those  days,  all  wheat  and  no  chaff,  that 

is  the  crux.    A  crux  ?    No ;  the  veriest  turnstile ; 

for  who  (unless  it  be  Buridan's  Ass,  nicely  built 

224 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

of  logical  formulae)  is  so  framed  as  not  to  love 
one  thing  better  than  another?  So  I  (whom  Buri- 
dan  had  no  hand  in  shaping)  have  but  to  choose 
among  my  century  of  days  those  I  love  the  best, 
those  that  speak  most  nobly  of  those  I  love. 

So  I  shall  hasten  to  set  them  down — hasten, 
even  through  Arcadia,  for  I  want  to  stand  with 
the  reader  on  the  Lanterne  de  Diogene. 

These  days  are  selected  from  the  journal  I  men- 
tioned before.  Night  by  night — oh,  with  what 
joy  and  pain ! — I  recorded  our  doings ;  and  now, 
as  before,  I  have  suppressed  the  dates  and  many 
foolish  comments  and  reflections. 
First  day,  morning. 

A  carte-pneumatique  was  brought  me  this  morn- 
ing with  my  coffee  and  rolls. 

This  is  what  it  says : 

"O  beautified  and  beatified  Gare  du  Nord!  O 
Eclogue  of  the  Coming  of  Golden ! 

"O  shining  rails  of  voie  dix-neuf  and  the  head- 
light of  the  celestial  train ! 

"O  punto  ricamato  a  maglia  quadra! — and 
what  the  Dante  is  that? 

"O  D wight  of  D wights  that  solved  so  master- 
fully the  mystery  of  Sir  Michael  Burke ! 

"O  paradisiacal  douane,  where  the  psychical 
passes  untaxed! 

225 


GLAMOURIE 

"O  river  that  wills  to  be  beautiful! — thank 
Golden  for  that  word." 

Surprising,  this  letter?  I  do  not  find  it  so.  It 
is  fantastic  perhaps,  even  egregious,  but  not  sur- 
prising. Sir  Michael  has  now  exhausted  my  ca- 
pacity of  surprise.  Were  he  to  appear  at  mid- 
night, a  conventional,  vapoury  ghost,  I  should 
greet  him  with  a  merry  "Jarniprisme!"  quite  un- 
perturbed. 

First  day,  afternoon. 

"The  Cluny  first  1"  said  Miss  Warboy,  when  I 
asked  where  I  should  guide  them  this  Sunday 
afternoon.  "The  Cluny  first! — I  am  longing  to 
see  a  certain  collet  d'apparat,  point  de  Venise,  of 
1664." 

Miss  Warboy,  I  find,  is  a  rare  woman,  intelli- 
gent, beautifully  cultured  and  affectionately  sym- 
pathetic. 

The  Cluny  first!  It  was  a  walk  I  shall  al- 
ways remember,  that  of  ours,  along  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Germain,  thronged  with  smiling,  chat- 
tering, Sunday  pleasure-seekers.  The  sun  was 
warm,  the  spring  was  in  the  air,  and  Paris, 
"dimpling  as  she  smiled,"  enveloped  us  in  her 
gracious  caress. 

"Ladies,"  I  said,  "permit  me  to  present  to  you 
the  Boulevard  St.  Michel.     To  mark  yourselves 
226 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

as  loyal  partisans  of  the  Quarter  you  must  call  it 
the  Boul'  Mich'." 

"The  Boul'  Mich,'  "  echoed  my  companions 
gaily. 

"And  here  is  the  Cluny,"  I  continued.  "Not  a 
bad  place  to  begin  your  Paris  with.  A  Roman 
bath,  you  know,  part  of  the  palace  of  Julian  the 
Apostate,  built  by  Constantius  Chlorus." 

By  the  arched  door  in  the  old  wall,  we  entered 
the  exquisite  court  of  Jacques  d'Amboise,  abbe  de 
Cluny. 

"Tell,  Mr.  Dwight!"  commanded  Golden. 

"Impossible,"  I  answered.  "It  has  housed  a 
Roman  emperor;  abbes  galore;  the  widow  of 
Louis  XII;  James  of  Scotland;  the  Cardinal  of 
Loraine.  The  Comedians  acted  here.  The  papal 
nuncio  lived  here.  It  has  been  a  printing  press, 
an  observatory,  a  workmen's  barracks.  It  is  Paris 
in  little." 

We  went  in.  As  we  entered  the  wondrous  sec- 
ond room,  Miss  Warboy  made  a  little  exclama- 
tion of  delight  and  ran  to  a  glass  case. 

"The  aiibe,"  she  cried  with  rapture,  "the 
aube  of  aubes!  Lace,  what  lace!  Ateliers 
d'Argentan!  Point  de  France!  Go  away,  young 
people,  go  away! — and  leave  me  to  my  devo- 
tions." 

227 


GLAMOURIE 

And  Miss  Warboy,  producing  a  tape-measure, 
pencil  and  notebook,  thus  began  her  work. 

Laughing,  we  left  her;  and  as  we  wandered 
through  that  dim  treasure  house  I  told  Golden  of 
Sir  Michael's  letter. 

"It  gives  one  a  pleasant,  haunted  feeling,  doesn't 
it?"  she  commented.  "I  wonder  if  he  is  watching 
us  now  from  one  of  those  fourteenth  century  saints 
of  carved  wood." 

She  looked  about  her  and  added, 

"If  I  were  to  stay  here  long,  Mr.  Dwight,  I 
should  be  kneeling  in  worship  to  those  worm- 
eaten  images." 

"Then  come  away  at  once.  Come  back  to  the 
beginnings  of  Paris." 

And  we  went  down  to  the  Roman  baths. 

"How  dead  and  far  off  it  all  seems,"  said 
Golden,  as  we  stood  under  the  great  vault  of  brutal 
cement. 

"But  how  vital  and  near  it  all  was  once,"  I 
answered.  "See!  this  altar  for  me  is  the  most 
living  stone  in  history.  It  was  dug  up  under 
Notre  Dame  nearly  two  centuries  ago.  Its  in- 
scription says  that  it  was  reared  by  the  boat- 
men  " 

"The  boatmen?" 

"Yes;  the  boatmen  of  Paris  (doesn't  that  sound 
228 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

modern  and  friendly?)  to  Jove,  the  greatest  of  the 
gods.  That  was  in  the  time  of  Tiberius,  some 
eighteen  centuries  ago." 

"The  greatest  of  the  gods,"  she  mused;  "how 
they  wax  and  wane,  come  and  go,  the  gods." 

"Their  names  pass  by  like  vapours,  veiling  the 
Face  we  seek,"  I  quoted. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  wistfully,  "what  temple 
to  what  new  name  will  be  built  on  the  ruins  of 
Notre  Dame." 

"Questing,"  I  thought,  "questing!  Wings! 
Dwight,  wings!" 

Then  she  exclaimed  merrily,  "Oh,  Mr.  Dwight ! 
there  is  a  Roman  Prism." 

She  pointed  to  a  crude,  cat-like  figure  on  a 
black  pillar  that  seemed  to  preside  over  the  room. 

"Prism  decidedly,"  I  agreed,  "obviously  a  most 
puritanical  beast.  Here,  however,  are  poor  creat- 
ures of  another  sort." 

I  indicated  a  carving,  marvellous  for  all  its  mu- 
tilation, showing  a  hunting  of  hares — a  perfect 
rendering  of  incarnate,  tortured  fear. 

"Brr,"  shivered  my  companion,  "see  those  dis- 
torted men  crouching  behind  the  net.  Did  you 
ever  show  this  to  Cousin  Michael?" 

"He  showed  it  to  me." 

"And  he  talked  about  it?" 
229 


GLAMOURIE 

"Rather!"   I  laughed,  "and  at  length." 

"And  he  mentioned  the  fishing  parson?" 

I  admitted  that  Sir  Michael  had  not  spared  his 
bete-noire. 

"And  also,  by  way  of  antithesis,  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi." 

"He  said  a  good  word  for  the  good  man." 

We  laughed  affectionately  at  the  memory  of  our 
dear  Master's  verbal  coruscations  on  this  subject; 
and,  still  laughing,  we  rejoined  Miss  Warboy. 

She  stood,  the  dear  little  woman,  in  a  sort  of 
trance  of  connoisseurship  before  a  vitrine  of  lace. 

"I  am  very  happy,"  she  said  ecstatically ;  "there 
is  a  mountain  of  work  ahead  of  me.  I  shall  do 
but  little  sightseeing  in  Paris  till  it  is  done." 

I  wonder,  as  I  record  Miss  Warboy's  words,  if 
she  devised  this  little  plan  of  self-effacement  for 
our  sakes.  God  knows  that  she  need  not — God 

knows 

Second  day. 

Sir  Michael  writes 

"I  watched  you  from  a  wormy  saint — 
Haunted ! 

I  watched  you  from  a  Roman  cat — 
Haunted ! 

Where  Christians  reared  their  Notre  Dame 

What  shall  we  heathen  build? 
230 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

This  shall  we  build: 

The  gospel  according  to  Sir  Michael! 
Jarniprisme!" 

It  occurs  to  me,  as  I  copy  this,  that  Sir  Michael 
will  be  a  more  efficient  chaperon  than  Miss  War- 
boy! 

Tenth  day. 

I  have  not  written  in  my  journal  for  a  week. 
It  has  passed  in  finding  an  apartment  with  a 
studio.  We  have  found  one  at  last  on  the  Rue 
de  Vaugirard,  not  far  from  the  Luxembourg. 
Last  Monday  I  assisted  Golden  and  Miss  Warboy 
in  taking  possession.  They  gave  me  tea  in  the 
studio  that  afternoon  by  way  of  pendre  la  cremail- 
lere. 

To-day  I  took  Golden  (who  had  discarded  her 
mourning  for  white)  to  the  Arenes  de  Lutece. 

"Sir  Michael  says,"  I  remarked,  as  we  stood 
in  the  arena,  "that  strangers  take  Paris  by  the 
wrong  handle.  They  rush  to  the  Salle  Carree, 
open  astonished  mouths  at  the  Mona  Lisa  and 
blither  about  the  meaning  of  her  smile.  Whereas 
they  ought  (I  am  still  quoting  Sir  Michael)  to 
go  to  the  Roman  arena,  play  like  children  at  lion 
and  gladiator  and  try  to  envisage  the  infancy  of 
Paris." 

"That    sounds    like    Cousin    Michael,"    said 
231 


GLAMOURIE 

Golden.  "What  a  picture  it  makes ! — a  conducted 
party,  armed  with  umbrellas,  playing  gladiator 
and  lion  with  their  roaring  guide!" 

"Sir  Michael's  plan,"  I  admitted,  laughing,  "is 
scarcely  feasible.  But  there  is  something  jocular 
about  the  place,  as  if  Paris  were  making  fun  of 
her  own  crude  beginnings.  I  suspect  that  the 
gardener  is  party  to  the  joke  and  keeps  his  rateau 
and  houe  in  the  lions'  cage  yonder." 

"Was  this  all  the  arena  ?" 

"No ;  that  is  another  mild  joke.  The  other  half 
is  buried  over  there  under  the  bureaux  de  la  Com- 
pagnie  des  Omnibus.  There's  an  anticlimax  for 
you!" 

"I  begin  to  see  Paris  growing,"  said  she,  "grow- 
ing like  an  elfin  child." 

"To  return  to  Sir  Michael's  suggestion,"  I  said, 
for  I  had  a  reason  for  wishing  to  continue  the  sub- 
ject; "though  we  two  can't  play  lion  and  gladi- 
ator, we  must  do  something  to  please  him.  Sup- 
pose I  photograph  you  on  the  benches  up  there, 
in  the  pose  of  a  vestal,  deciding  the  fate  of  a  van- 
quished gladiator?" 

She  agreed  and  left  me,  passing  through  the 

entrance  to  the  arena  to  reappear  presently  at  the 

top  of  the  steps.    Removing  her  hat  (a  picturesque 

but  decided  anachronism)  she  selected  her  place. 

232 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

"Come  down,"  I  directed,  watching  the  finder 
of  my  camera,  "the  vestals  always  sat  nearest  the 
arena." 

It  made  a  dainty  picture,  that  white,  slender 
figure  on  the  grey  steps,  with  the  sunlight  on  her 
tossed  hair.  The  vestal  of  the  Arenes  de  Lutece ! 
I  think  that  when  I  am  an  old,  lonely  man  (very 
lonely  people  always  live  to  be  very  old)  that 
scene  will  shine  most  beautifully  in  my  memory — 
the  sunlight  of  Paris  and  that  living  flash  of 
white  and  red  gold  against  the  background  of  old 
Rome. 

She  took  the  conventional  pose. 

"It  is  the  sign  of  mercy,"  I  said,  referring  to 
her  gesture;  "you  have  spared  the  life  of  your 
gladiator." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  merrily;  "for  he  fought 
well  and  his  umbrella  was  rather  dull." 

Thirteenth  day. 

I  found  Golden  to-day  deep  in  Pascal,  Miss 
Warboy  surrounded  by  manuscripts  and  photo- 
graphs of  lace. 

"Listen  to  this,  Mr.  Dwight,"  said  Golden, 
"L'homine  n'est  qu'un  roseau  le  plus  faible  de  la 
nature;  mais  c'est  un  roseau  pensant." 

"Man  is  a  reed,  the  feeblest  in  nature,"  I  trans- 
16  233 


GLAMOURIE 

lated,  for  Miss  Warboy  looked  puzzled,  "but  he 
is  a  thinking  reed.  Sir  Michael  used  to  call  that 
the  finest  metaphor  in  literature.  He  saw  in  it 
the  great  marsh,  the  marais,  that  lay  in  Roman 
times  to  the  east  of  Lutece.  And  in  the  marsh 
(I  will  try  to  quote  his  own  words),  amid  steam- 
ing vapours,  amid  millions  of  its  whispering  fel- 
lows, stood  a  reed,  broken  by  some  fierce  wind  of 
doctrine,  but  thinking — thinking — thinking.  And 
the  marais  dried,  and  Paris  rose ;  but  the  thinking 
of  that  fragile  reed  lived  on,  an  ecstasy  and  a  light 
in  the  soul  of  a  people." 

"You  have  a  good  memory,  Mr.  Dwight,"  re- 
marked Miss  Warboy. 

"Sir  Michael  is  easy  to  remember,"  said  I. 
"Apropos  of  Pascal,  would  you  like  to  make  a 
pious  pilgrimage  to-day  to  the  tomb  of  the  roseau 
pensant?  St.  Etienne  du  Mont,  where  his  ashes 
lie,  is  not  far." 

"Not  I,"  said  Miss  Warboy  firmly,  pointing  at 
her  work.  "Go,  Golden." 

"I  will  take  my  Pascal,"  said  Golden ;  and  pres- 
ently we  sallied  forth  together,  crossed  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens  and  climbed,  by  the  Rue  Soufflot, 
the  slope  of  Mons.  Lucotitius. 

"And  who  is  that  muscular  person?"  asked 
Golden,  as  we  passed  the  Pantheon. 
234 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

"That  is  Le  Penseur  by  Rodin.  Not  a  think- 
ing reed,  is  he?" 

"He  is  not  thinking  at  all,"  said  she  critically ; 
"he  is  just  trying  to  think." 

We  entered  St.  Etienne,  passed  under  the  mar- 
vellous rood-loft,  by  the  shrine  of  good  Saint 
Genevieve  and  stood  reverently,  in  the  glow  of 
the  old  windows,  by  the  grave  of  Pascal. 

"Let  us  read  him  a  phrase  or  two  of  his  own," 
said  Golden,  opening  her  book. 

As  I  stood  beside  her,  my  hand  also  on  the 
little  brown  volume,  we  must  have  looked  like  two 
New  England  lovers  singing  in  a  meeting  house. 
In  alternate  whispers  we  read  as  follows : 

"Quelle  chimere  est-ce  done  que  I'hommef" 
murmured  Golden. 

"Quelle  nouveaute,  quel  chaos,  quel  sujet  de 
contradiction,"  I  responded. 

"Je  juge  de  toutes  choses,  imbecile,  ver  de  terre, 
depositaire  du  vrai " 

"Amas  d' incertitude,  gloire  et  rebut  de  I'uni- 
vers " 

"S'il  se  vante,  je  I'abaisse " 


'S'il  s'abaisse,  je  le  vante- 
'Et  le  contredis  toujours- 


'Jusqu'a  ce  qu'il  comprenne " 

'Qu'il  est  un  monstre  incomprehensible." 
235 


GLAMOURIE 

Fourteenth  day. 

Sir  Michael  writes: 

"Why  do  the  heathen  so  furiously  rage  to- 
gether ? 

"To  show  to  a  radiant  vestal  the  childhood  of 
Lutece!" 

Fifteenth  day. 

Sir  Michael  writes: 

"A  chimeref  No;  a  thousand  times  no;  you 
poor,  pure,  be-priested  Pascal! 

"Earth-worm,  say  you?  No,  poor  Pascal! — 
say  rather  Heaven-spinner  and  Chooser  of  the 
Dream. 

"Poor  Pascal ! — ah,  had  you  known  the  thought 
of  Michael  Burke.  It  was  bad,  prismatically  bad, 
to  have  been  born  in  the  dark  era  B.  M.  B." 

Seventeenth  day. 

"What  does  he  mean  by  Heaven-spinner,"  asked 
Golden,  "and  Chooser  of  the  Dream?" 

I  did  not  know. 

"And  what  is  B.  M.  B.?" 

"Before  Michael  Burke,  I  suspect,"  I  answered. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  she,  laughing  at  his  flagrant 
self-appreciation. 

It  is  pleasant  to  hear  Golden  laugh.  But,  dear 
God !  I  am  very  sad  to-night ;  and  I  saw  that  look 
236 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

in  my  father's  face  in  mine  just  now  in  the  mir- 
ror.   But  changed  somehow  and  unpeaceful. 
Twenty-fifth  day. 

To-day  I  found  Golden  painting  on  the  Quai 
de  1'Horloge,  close  by  the  water.  She  was  making 
a  sketch  in  oils  of  the  Pont  Neuf.  The  grotesque 
faces  on  the  parapet  were  smiling  on  her  blandly 
and,  I  think,  self-consciously. 

"I  wonder,  Mr.  Dwight,"  she  said  suddenly, 
looking  dejectedly  at  her  work,  "I  wonder  why 
we  do  this.  Why  do  artists  paint  and  sculptors 
mould  and  writers  phrase  the  things  they  see? 
The  things  are  here:  why  don't  we  just  enjoy 
them,  instead  of  translating  them  into  failures?" 

"Is  it  not  our  quest  for  the  Thought,  Miss 
Burke,  the  Something  behind  nature?  You  want 
your  sketch  to  say  that  just  under  the  brown  of 
those  old  stones,  just  below  the  surface  of  the 
water,  just  outside  the  frame  of  your  picture, 
glows — let  us  say — the  Spirit  of  Nature.  I  think 
that  all  true  art,  as  distinguished  from  mere  tech- 
nique, is  the  struggle  to  express  that  Spirit." 

"And  perhaps,  too,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "the 
hope  to  preserve  one's  strange,  haunted  feeling  in 
the  presence  of  beauty.  Paris  had  been  whisper- 
ing to  me  here ;  and  see" — she  began  to  wipe  her 
brushes — "the  deplorable  result." 
237 


GLAMOURIE 

"It  is  not  a  bad  colour-scheme,"  I  said  consol- 
ingly. 

"But  I  hate  mere  colour-schemes,"  she  cried. 

I  wish  I  had  not  taken  up  this  wretched  law. 
Art,  it  seems  to  me,  alone  is  holy.  Yet  perhaps 
I  am  fittest  for  the  loveless  logic  of  the  law. 

Twenty-sixth  day. 

"Wrong,  clever  Jack! 

"Wrong,  dearest  Golden! 

"Art  is  not  the  search  for  the  Spirit  Divine. 

"It  is  not  the  wish  to  preserve  (like  jam  in  a 
glass  jar  with  a  bit  of  buttered  paper  on  top)  the 
haunting  sweetness  of  a  dulcet  mood. 

"It  is — but  wait,  my  children,  for  the  Day  of 
the  Unveiling!" 

Fifty-fifth"  day. 

We  visited  to-day  some  beautiful  old  hotels, 
now  given  over  to  trade  and  white  pine  packing- 
boxes,  in  the  haunted  precincts  of  the  Marais. 

As  we  walked  down  the  Rue  des  Archives 
toward  the  river  I  suddenly  stopped. 

"Look  about  you,  Miss  Golden,"  I  said,  "and 
tell  me  what  you  see." 

"Just  a  dear  old  Paris  street,"  she  answered, 
"with  a  fabrlque  de  brasserie  and  a  cafe  where 
they  sell  biere  de  la  Heche  d'or.    And  there  is  a 
238 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

tiny  menuiserie  and  a  tiny  serrurererie,  which  I 
can't  pronounce.  And  a  societe  generate  and  the 
ugly  facade  of  a  late  Renaissance  church.  And 
here  is  an  ecole  la'ique  communale  de  jeunes  gar- 
qons.  It  is  all  modern  and  deliciously  Paris." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "shut  your  eyes  and  let  me 
lead  you  back  five  hundred  years." 

She  obeyed — no  more  lapis,  violets  or  rain-wet 
heartsease  for  the  moment! — and  I  led  her  (to 
the  manifest  surprise  of  the  concierge}  through 
a  door  into  the  little  cloister  of  the  Billettes. 

It  is  a  shadowy,  dark-grey,  gothic  thing,  this 
little  cloister.  It  was  a  spot  of  peaceful  silence, 
I  fancy,  in  a  turbulent  time.  It  was  never  quite 
finished;  for  here  is  a  capital  still  uncarved,  and 
here  a  boss  of  the  vaulting  still  in  the  rough,  as 
if  the  hands  that  wrought  there  year  by  year  had 
lingered  too  lovingly  over  the  task,  until  old  age, 
approaching  unseen,  had  made  them  drop  maul 
and  chisel. 

"It  is  like  a  gracious  memory,"  said  Golden. 

"Yet,"  I  observed,  "it  ought  to  be  haunted  by 
an  exceedingly  ungracious  old  ghost.  There, 
where  the  church  stands,  was  the  house  of  that 
terrible  Jew,  Jonathas.  He  it  was  who  got  the 
consecrated  wafer  from  that  altar  of  St.  Merri, 
and  stabbed  it,  scourged  it  and  boiled  it,  or — as 

239 


GLAMOURIE 

the  histories  say — fit  bouillir  Dieu!  He  was  de- 
tected, by  a  miracle  of  course;  and  after  he  had 
been  burnt  alive,  his  house  was  razed  and  a  church 
built  in  expiation.  There  is  the  thirteenth  century 
for  you.  What  a  dark  pother  about  a  small  bit 
of  bread!" 

To-day — thank  God  for  to-day ! — the  cloister  is 
hung  with  pencil  sketches,  the  work  of  those 
young  craftsmen  of  the  ecole  la'ique  communale  de 
jeunes  gargons  who  learn  here  what  will  fit  them 
for  life  in  an  uncloistered  world. 

Yet  I  somehow  think  to-night  that  a  cloister, 
say  if  one  is  rather  unhappy,  might  not  be  so  bad 
after  all. 

Fifty-sixth  day. 

Sir  Michael  writes  to-day 

"O  Heaven-spinners !  Heaven-spinners ! — there 
are  commoner  commonplaces  than  unleavened 
bread  that  are  transubstantiated  into  the  Eternal. 

"And  you,  unknowing,  know — O  Heaven-spin- 
ners!" 

I  do  not  understand  him  at  all — ah,  God — I  do 
not  understand  anything  now,  not  even  my  own 
heart ! 

Seventy-second  day. 

We  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  owl  to-day. 
He  lives  in  a  wire  cage  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes. 
240 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

His  face  is  feather-horned  and  fierce  and  he  glared 
at  us  unwinking,  like  an  inveterate  hate  that  had 
been  changed  into  a  bird. 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Golden  pityingly,  as  we 
watched  him,  "I  am  very  sorry  for  you." 

And  the  great  owl  drew  back  his  head  as  if  to 
strike,  opened  his  curved  beak  and  uttered  in  a 
hoarse,  throaty  whisper  the  single  word, 

"Boo!" 

Seventy-third  day. 

"Boo!"  writes  Sir  Michael. 

Seventy-eighth  day. 

We  were  watching  to-day  the  glimmering,  ex- 
panding rings  of  my  little  pond  in  the  garden  of 
the  Tuileries. 

And  we  were  very  silent. 

Suddenly  I  heard  a  voice  say, 

"Excuse  me,  Sir,  but  do  you  speak  English?" 

The  question  came  from  a  mild,  grey,  clerical- 
looking  man,  whose  accent  marked  him  for  a  New 
Englander.  A  smiling,  plump  little  woman  was 
on  his  arm. 

"After  a  fashion,"  I  answered;  "can  I  be  of 
service  ?" 

"Yes ;  perhaps  you  can  kindly  tell  us  where  we 
will  find  the  Bastille." 

241 


GLAMOURIE 

"Ah,  the  Bastille  was  destroyed  in  the  Revolu- 
tion, you  know.  There's  a  small  fragment  left 
near  the  Pont  Sully." 

"Destroyed!  Too  bad,  too  bad!  Then  per- 
haps you  can  direct  us  to  the  Palace  of  the  Tool- 
eries." 

"Gone  also!"  I  answered  commiseratingly ;  "it 
was  razed  in  the  last  war.  But  it  stood  over 
there." 

"I  think,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "that  I 
must  polish  up  my  rusty  history  a  little." 

She  smiled  agreement  and  turned  to  Golden. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "will  you  direct  me  to  the  best 
store  to  buy  souvenir  spoons?" 

Golden  confessed  her  ignorance  so  sweetly 
that  I  thought  it  a  better  souvenir  than  many 
spoons. 

"And  books,  old  books,"  said  the  clergyman 
eagerly,  "where  can  I  buy  old  books?" 

"Good!"  I  exclaimed;  "at  last  I  can  help  you. 
Cross  the  Pont  Royal,  the  stone  bridge  you  see 
there,  and  along  the  quais  you  will  find  miles 
of  old  books.  You  will  find  the  stalls  open 
now." 

"But,  my  dear  Sir,"  he  cried,  "you  surely 
wouldn't  have  me  buy  books  on  the  Sabbath  day !" 

And  they  rambled  away,  still  smiling. 
242 


"Dear  people,"  I  murmured,  as  we  watched 
them  go. 

"Dear  people,"  said  Golden,  "searching  for  old 
buildings  and  finding  only  ghosts.  What  a  happy, 
vague,  ignorance-is-bliss  sort  of  way  of  going 
through  life.  Dear  people!" 

And  then  we  were  silent  again  and  watched 
together  the  interplay  of  the  wave  rings  as,  re- 
bounding from  the  edge  of  the  basin,  they  met 
their  advancing  younger  mates  and  broke  the  grey 
reflections  of  tree  and  vase  and  statue  into  sinuous, 
wavering  parallels  of  light  and  shade. 

"Ghosts,"  I  said  at  last,  speaking  very  softly 
because  the  fountain  splashed  in  whispers ;  "ghosts 
in  our  Paris.  I,  too,  have  sought  them — one  at 
least — and  failed  to  find  it." 

"When  was  that?"  murmured  Golden. 

"In  early  spring,  before  your  coming.  Alas! 
I  found  the  place — in  the  Rue  de  la  Grande 
Truanderie — and  it  was  a  tiny,  black  square  in  a 
blank  street — full  of  scents  and  clamours  of  Les 
Halles.  It  was  an  illusion  perdue,  Miss  Golden, 
and  I  felt  very  sad." 

"What  was  the  lost  illusion,  Mr.  Dwight  ?"  she 
said  sympathisingly. 

"Just  a  beautiful  old  name  of  the  past,"  I  said. 
"I  was  searching  for  Les  Puits  d' Amour." 

243 


GLAMOURIE 

She  said  the  name  after  me  and  a  look  came 
into  her  face  that  told  me  she  was  thinking  of  my 
dear  Master. 

I  wish  he  would  come  back !  I  want  to  go !  I 
have  a  hunger  for  my  old  New  England,  and  the 
great  elms  and  the  walls  of  my  father's  house. 
Dear,  brave  father! — he  surely  found  the  secret 
of  life. 

Seventy-ninth  day. 

"There  is  no  ghost  of  love,"  writes  Sir  Michael, 
"that  ghost  shall  fail  to  find,  O  Heaven-spin- 
ners!" 

Yes;  you  will  find  it,  my  good  Sir  Michael, 
when  you  come  back  to  your  home,  in  that  great, 
loving  woman  heart.  God  bless  them  both! 

Ninety-eighth  day. 

We  have  been  to  the  Louvre  again  and  again. 
We  have  sought  it  as  the  sparks  fly  upward.  We 
have  blithered,  in  spite  of  Sir  Michael,  about  the 
smile  of  Mona  Lisa ;  and  we  have  arranged,  in  a 
fashion  unknown  to  former  critics,  the  beautiful 
missing  arms  of  the  Venus  of  Melos.  Why  not, 
indeed  ?  Poor  lady,  she  is  used  to  such  callisthen- 
ics! 

Any  excuse  has  sufficed  us.  Sometimes  there 
has  been  an  austere  thirst  for  the  classic  to  be 
244 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

assauged;  sometimes  there  has  been — a  potent 
reason — a  rainy  day  to  be  brightened. 

To-day  we  entered  the  Louvre  with  the  high 
purpose  of  studying  Poussin.  We  walked  through 
the  lane  of  sarcophagi  and  bronzes  of  the  Galerie 
Denon  and  ascended,  like  some  undeviating  law 
of  nature,  the  Escalier  Daru.  We  were  indiffer- 
ent to  the  Nike  of  Samothrace  that  stands  on  the 
stairway  and  we  were  blind  to  the  alluring  fres- 
coes of  Botticelli  that  glow  near  the  green  baize 
doors  at  the  top. 

We  strode  through  the  painty  aroma  that  haunts 
the  room  where  generations  of  students  forever 
copy  the  mild  Greuze  and  the  smirking  Le  Brun. 
Them  we  passed,  inflexible,  with  the  Bouchers, 
the  Fragonards  and  the  great  Watteau.  So  also 
we  traversed  the  next  room,  with  its  portraits,  un- 
til we  stood  at  last,  Golden  and  I,  in  the  Saturnian 
world  of  Poussin. 

He  was  an  Arcadian,  this  Poussin.  For  two 
centuries  and  a  half  a  glow  of  sunshine  and  inno- 
cence and  old-world  enchantment  has  flowed  out 
of  his  haunted  canvases  into  lovers'  hearts.  Crit- 
ics speak  of  his  art,  his  composition,  the  classic 
flow  of  his  line;  but  we,  Golden  and  I,  heedless 
of  these  academics,  walked  to-day  in  fancy  under 
his  halcyon  skies,  in  his  elysian  woodlands,  living 
245 


GLAMOURIE 

with  equal  content  amid  Grecian  myth  or  Hebrew 
legend. 

We  wandered  together  through  his  groves  and 
pastures,  tasted  the  apples  of  Eden  and  the  huge 
grapes  of  the  Promised  Land,  stood  with  Rebecca 
at  the  well  of  Nahor  and  with  Ruth  amid  the  stub- 
ble of  Bethlehem. 

And  Orpheus  played  to  us,  twangling  on  the 
lyre,  and  dim-faced  Echo  called  and  Narcissus 
lay  beautiful  by  the  brookside. 

And  at  last,  sharers  by  some  happy  fancy  in 
this  time  of  primal  innocence,  we  joined  a  little 
group  of  shepherds  that  had  gathered  round  a 
forgotten  tomb  in  Arcadia.  And  there  an  elder 
shepherd,  more  learned  than  the  rest,  spelt  out 
for  us,  one  by  one,  the  words  carved  on  the 
ancient  stone.  His  finger,  with  many  pauses, 
moved  on  from  letter  to  letter  while  we 
watched  him,  wondering  at  his  skill.  The 
end  reached,  he  turned  to  us  and  said,  sol- 
emnly, tenderly, 

"Et  in  Arcadia  ego." 

And  we  were  all  silent,  looking  through  wet 
eyes  at  the  old,  grey  tomb  with  its  message  from 
the  happy  dead,  at  the  wrapt  faces  of  our  com- 
panions, at  our  flocks  browsing  the  herbage,  the 
lush  herbage  of  Arcadia. 
246 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS 

And  we  stood  side  by  side,  Golden  and  I,  and 
walked  slowly  home,  silent — silent 

I  must  reach  Sir  Michael.  He  must  let  me  go 
away,  somewhere,  anywhere.  His  Paris  is  mak- 
ing me  mad. 

Ninety-ninth  day. 

Sir  Michael  writes: 

"My  learned  finger,  O  Arcadian  pair,  traced 
for  you  the  magic  words. 

"Yet — O  jarniprisme! — I  was  not  there. 

"In  Lutetia  ego! 

"To-morrow  is  the  Day  of  the  Unveiling. 

"The  hour  is  ten. 

"The  place  the  Lanterne  de  Diogene. 

"In  happiness  I! 

"In  infinite  happiness  I !" 

Thank  God !  And  may  they  be  always  happy, 
my  dear,  dear  friends.  He  read  her  heart,  her 
golden  heart,  before  that  picture  and  knows  at 
last.  Thank  God! 

If  he  read  mine  too  he  knows  at  least  that  is 
the  heart  of  a  suffering  and  loyal  friend.  God 
bless  him! 


XVII 

LA  LANTERNE  DE  DIOGENE 

ACROSS  the  river,  just  opposite  Sir  Michael's 
window,  is  the  starting  place  of  the  boats  for  St. 
Cloud.  It  was  there  that  Golden  and  I  took  a 
"bateau  mouche"  on  Monday  morning  for  the 

"Cote  du  couchant,  pres  de  ces  bords  fleuris, 
Oft  la  Seine  serpente  en  fuyant  de  Paris." 

Leaving  our  boat  at  Sevres,  we  walked  through 
the  woods  of  the  park  of  St.  Cloud.  We  climbed 
by  way  of  the  rocky  gorge  (a  sweet  place, 
haunted  by  memories  of  thousands  of  happy  lov- 
ers) to  the  crest  of  the  hill,  where  the  broad,  green 
Alice  du  Chateau  led  us  to  the  Lanterne  de  Di- 
ogene. 

The  plateau  that  bears  this  name  was  deserted. 
Neither  the  holiday  Parisian  nor  the  votaries  of 
Baedeker  frequent  the  park  of  a  Monday  morn- 
ing. Yet  the  latter  has  his  cult  there  when,  later 
in  the  day,  the  "beautiful  view"  of  Paris  (starred 
in  the  useful  red  volume)  is  touched  by  the  west- 
248 


LA  LANTERNE  DE  DIOGENE 

ering  sun.  Thither,  too,  of  a  Sunday,  wander 
"dear  lovers,  intertwined,"  Parisian  lovers,  vol- 
uble and  pantomimic. 

The  hour  had  come!  As  we  stood  there  side 
by  side  looking  down  on  Paris  shimmering  like  a 
mirage  in  the  morning  vapours,  we  heard  a  voice 
singing  far  off  in  the  woods  behind  us.  It  grew 
nearer  and  nearer,  until  I  caught  the  lilt  of  Sir 
Michael's  old  song,  the  burden  of  our  last  day 
together.  Then  the  familiar  words,  coloured  and 
glorified  by  that  noble  voice,  became  audible ;  and 
the  Master  himself  came  forth  from  the  trees, 
singing. 

"J'aime  mieux  ma  mie, 

O  gail  j'aime  mieux  ma  mie!" 

It  seemed  a  paean  of  victory  now,  the  mad  old 
song! 

A  wordless  greeting ;  a  hand  to  each ;  the  caress 
of  a  long,  tender  look ;  while  the  Eve  of  Sodoma 
glowed  wondering  in  that  spiritual  face. 

"Children,"  he  said  at  last,  "look  at  me  well! 
Am  I  changed?" 

He  was  not  changed,  our  dear  Sir  Michael,  and 
we  told  him  so  joyfully. 

"Yet,"  he  went  on,  "I  ought  to  be  changed — 
changed  worm  to  moth — changed  seed  to  blos- 
som." 

17  249 


GLAMOURIE 

He  released  our  hands  and  stepped  back  a  few 
paces. 

"For,"  he  continued,  with  a  gesture  of  self-in- 
troduction, "I  am  an  Extraordinary  Person! 

"Listen  to  a  history  of  wonders.  I  was,  when 
I  left  you,  just  little  Sir  Michael  Burke,  a  child- 
ish whimsey,  a  dreamer  of  dreams.  I  became 
(children!  that  was  a  hellish  moment)  the  Earl 
of  Athlone,  a  Thing  with  a  Name,  a  Thing  of 
muniments  and  quarterings  and  partridge  pre- 
serves. I  died  (what  an  hour  of  wild  Irish  fun 
on  the  Celtic!)  and  became  reincarnate  in  the 
Veuve  Tequi.  Lastly  (for  the  widow  was  uncon- 
genial and  clumsy)  I  became  Q.  Tequi,  whose 
Christian  name,  if  it  be  Christian,  is  unknown 
even  to  himself.  He  has  a  studio  on  the  Quai  de 
Bourbon,  my  children,  and  the  concierge  believes 
him  mad.  Perhaps  the  concierge  has  reason.  The 
long  black  wig  and  painter's  kit  of  ce  brave 
Monsieur  Tequi  are  hidden  in  the  woods  yonder. 

"What  metempsychoses!  And  now  behold  me 
— I  am  an  ambassador-plenipotentiary !  a  nuncio ! 
a  herald!  I  am  Ariel!  Iris!  Mercury!  and  a 
mighty  Prophet  pardessus  le  marche!" 

Metempsychosis  had  evidently  left  unchanged 
the  Sir-Michaelism  of  Sir  Michael. 

"A  mighty  Prophet,"  he  continued,  "who 
250 


LA  LANTERNE  DE  DIOGENE 

now,  in  the  sight  of  his  Paris,  speaks  his  great 
word  to  his  first  disciples.  Come,  my  children,  my 
Heaven-spinners,  sit  down  there  on  the  grass 
while  I  unveil  to  you  the  gospel  according  to  Sir 
Michael." 

Obediently  Golden  and  I  sat  on  the  grass  look- 
ing out  at  the  great,  wavering,  vaporous  vista  of 
Paris,  which  formed  the  background  of  the  scene, 
as  Sir  Michael  paced  and  gesticulated  before  us. 

"My  children,"  he  began  solemnly,  "you  are 
present  at  the  birth  of  an  Era !  For  this  shall  be 
called  the  Day  of  the  Unveiling,  the  day  when 
the  Words  were  spoken,  when  creed-crystals 
crumbled  and  the  Loving  began." 

He  paused,  then  suddenly  flashed  into  a  great 
gesture  that  seemed  a  benediction. 

"O  hallowed  Lanterne  de  Diogene!"  he  cried, 
"what  pilgrims  from  far  lands,  through  all  the 
coming  aeons  of  light  and  love,  shall  turn  their 
feet  to  thee!  What  temple  of  virgin  stone  shall 
be  builded  here!  What  holy  lovers,  flower- 
crowned,  shall  seek  thy  altars  to  minister  to  thy 
creedless,  priestless  cult!  And  Paris,  my  Paris, 
lying  there  below,  what  spiritual  glory  shall  be 
thine  as,  taught  by  me,  thou  shalt  grow  from  age 
to  age  from  what  thou  art  towards  what  thy  love 
shall  make  thee!" 

251 


GLAMOURIE 

He  smiled  radiantly  on  the  city,  as  if  he  saw 
that  triumphant  growth.  Then  he  turned  to  us. 

"Children,"  he  said,  "listen  with  all  your  souls. 
For  I  am  about  to  speak  the  Words  of  the  Un- 
veiling." 

I  felt  my  heart  quicken  and  saw  Golden's  cheeks 
redden  a  little.  What  would  the  Unveiling  be? 

"I  have  conquered,"  he  whispered,  and  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  "I  have  conquered:  I  have  en- 
tered the  Over-Paris!" 

We  both  uttered  some  exclamation. 

"No ;  do  not  speak !"  he  cried,  anticipating  us ; 
"I  know  all  you  would  say.  But  this  is  neither 
dream  nor  madness,  nor  any  phase,  under  any 
name,  of  human  psychology.  It  is  Thing,  my 
Golden !  It  is  Thing,  my  Jack !  It  is  Real,  I  tell 
you;  real  as  this  sod  I  trample,  as  that  Paris  we 
see.  There  is  an  Over-Paris,  my  children;  and 
that  Over-Paris  is  Thing!  Do  you  understand? 
It  is  Thing!" 

"And  I,"  he  went  on,  his  voice  sinking  again 
to  a  whisper,  "am  the  first  of  living  men  to  tread 
its  streets,  to  see  its  loveliness,  to  watch  it  build- 
ing by  the  mason-craft  of  love.  You  two  have 
been  mighty  builders  there  of  late." 

"We?"  cried  Golden  and  I  together. 

"Yea,  verily;  you!"  he  answered  caressingly. 
252 


LA  LANTERNE  DE  DIOGENE 

"Master-builders !  But,  jarniprisme,  mes  enfants! 
I  go  too  fast.  Let  us  open  our  Genesis  first  and 
see  our  new  world  as  it  was  in  the  beginning." 

He  paced  to  and  fro  for  a  few  minutes,  collect- 
ing his  thoughts,  and  then  continued : 

"In  the  beginning  was  the  tilling  of  the  soil," 
he  said,  "the  brain-soil  of  a  mad  little  Irish  hunch- 
back christened  Michael  Burke.  Christened  ?  yea, 
christened!  christened  into  the  church  that  was 
built  in  Rome  out  of  the  ruins  of  paganism,  the 
fatuity  of  Peter,  the  egotism  of  Paul  and  the 
blitherings  of  the  Fathers. 

"A  crystallisation,  mes  enfants!  Nothing  of 
the  Master  there;  nothing  of  that  limpid,  fluid 
soul  shot  through  and  vibrant  with  the  Light  Di- 
vine !  Nothing ! 

"So  he  became  Protestant,  the  little  Irish  hunch- 
back. He  joined  The  Church  (with  a  big  T)  ; 
he  haunted  Wesleyan  chapels;  he  sang  through 
his  nose  in  New  England  meeting-houses;  he 
shrivelled  under  arid  essays  in  Unitarian  Boston. 
In  vain ! — you  can't  build  a  religion  on  a  Protest. 
If  Rome  is  a  crystal,  mes  enfants,  then  Protestant- 
ism is  just  a  crack  in  the  crystal !  And  a  soul 
can't  live  in  a  crack— it  pinches,  pinches,  PINCHES  ! 
And  the  further  you  get  in  the  narrower  it  gets. 

"What  then?  He  wrenched  himself  loose,  the 
253 


GLAMOURIE 

mad  little  Irishman,  and  turned  to  Allah.  He 
made  his  hegira  to  Medina,  like  the  Prophet,  and 
studied  the  wisdom  of  Islam  in  the  mosques. 
Islam — what  a  word! — it  means  Obedience,  and 
that  meant  more  pinching  in  more  crystals.  Crys- 
tals still — nothing  but  crystals. 

"So  he  sought  Gautama,  the  Buddha,  and  heard 
in  Ceylon,  from  the  brothers  on  Adam's  Peak, 
of  the  turning  of  the  Wheel  of  the  Law,  of  the 
Noble  Truths,  of  the  Eightfold  Path.  Yea;  he 
even,  this  phrenetic  Celt,  repeated  the  Three  Ref- 
uges with  a  fervent  heart  and  entered  on  the  Per- 
fect Way. 

"Then  what  happened?  Why,  the  World 
rushed  in,  so  lovely,  so  lovable,  so  love-worthy. 
'Illusion!'  said  my  Buddist  Bhikkhus.  'Sorra  a 
bit!'  answered  that  wild  Irishman,  'it  is  Thing; 
and  I  am  in  love  with  its  thingness !' 

"So  he  fled  to  Paris ;  ah  God,  children,  he  fled 
to  Paris! 

"And  the  tilling  of  the  soil  was  done." 

The  Master  ceased  for  a  moment,  turned  his 
back  on  us  and  looked  out  over  his  city.  Then 
he  wheeled  suddenly  round. 

"No  man,"  he  said,  "has  ever  loved  a  Thing 
as  I  have  loved  Paris !  Bear  that  thought  like  a 
torch  through  my  story ;  let  it  kindle  every  word, 
254 


LA  LANTERNE  DE  DIOGENE 

glorify  every  act,  light  every  mystery.  No  man 
has  ever  loved  a  Thing  as  I  have  loved  Paris !" 

No  print  can  indicate  Sir  Michael's  solemn  em- 
phasis on  these  words. 

"The  soil  then,"  he  continued,  "was  tilled  and 
ready  for  the  seed.  And  the  seed  fell  from  the 
hand  of  the  Great  Sower,  one  of  the  myriads  that 
He  sows  forever  broadcast  over  the  fields  of  life. 
And  the  seed  quickened  in  the  soul  of  that  crazed 
Irish-Parisian;  quickened!  and  he  put  over  it  a 
bell-glass  made  by  one  Spinoza,  a  glass  that  gath- 
ered in  infinitudes  of  mystic  light.  And  the  seed 
burst  and  rooted  and  grew.  And  the  bell-glass 
cracked  and  splintered.  And  the  Thought  flow- 
ered in  the  sunshine,  the  fecund  sunshine  of  the 
He  de  France! 

"And  that  daft  Celtic  dwarf  saw  in  the  Thought 
a  seedling  of  the  tree  of  life,  a  spark  from  the 
divine  fire.  And  he  climbed  the  tower  of  Notre 
Dame  and  there,  his  poor  little  arms  stretched  up 
toward  the  Over- World,  he  intoned  his  creed  in 
the  hearing  of  deathless  Time  and  boundless 
Space : 

"I  believe  in  the  Divine  Chance! 

"I  believe  in  the  Divine  Memory! 

"I  believe  in  the  Divine  Love! 

"And  the  mad  little  Irish  hunchback  came  down 
255 


GLAMOURIE 

from  the  tower  and  entered  on  the  practice  of  his 
cult." 

As  he  said  these  words,  Sir  Michael  sat  down 
on  the  grass  in  front  of  us. 

"You  understand,  O  Heaven-spinners,  how  all 
this  leads  inevitably  to  the  Over-Paris?" 

We  did  not — and  said  so. 

"Then  attend,  mes  enfants.  I  shall  open  an 
ecole  maternelle  and  push  the  argument  by  sym- 
bols into  your  jejune  juvenility.  See! — as  we  sit 
here  we  form  a  triangle  and  within  that  triangle 
we  will  play  a  pretty  little  cosmic  game." 

Sir  Michael  spoke  coaxingly,  as  one  who  talks 
to  a  tiny  child. 

"Now  I  am  the  Divine  Chance,"  he  went  on. 
"Yes ;  I,  this  whim-wham  of  an  Irishman,  am  no 
less  than  the  Divine  Chance.  Don't  forget !  And 
that  slender,  beautiful,  golden  girl  over  there, 
what  is  she?  Can  you  guess,  big  boy?" 

"She  is  the  Divine  Love,"  I  answered  timidly. 

"Right,  O  remarkable  Jack!  And,  girl,  what 
is  he,  that  big,  brown  boy  that  never  forgets  any- 
thing?" 

"He  must  be  the  Divine  Memory,"  said  Golden. 

"Good,  O  sagacious  Golden!  Now  the  game 
begins.  Behold !"  He  waved  his  little  hands  and 
his  voice  rolled  forth  solemnly.  "I  am  shuffling 
256 


LA  LANTERNE  DE  DIOGENE 

the  cards ;  I  am  casting  the  dice ;  I  am  turning  the 
Roulette  of  the  Law;  I  am  combining  my 
Thoughts  into  Things ;  I  am  creating! 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  rushed  about  gather- 
ing little  objects  from  lawn  and  woods,  a  twig, 
a  pebble,  a  snail-shell,  a  leaf,  a  blade  of  grass,  a 
tiny  flower. 

"There!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  threw  his  find- 
ings to  Golden,  "the  Divine  Chance  tosses  its  mak- 
ing into  the  lap  of  the  Divine  Love." 

"What  a  perfect  leaf,"  said  Golden ;  "how  green 
and  tender.  Look  at  it,  Mr.  Dwight." 

"Jarniprisme!"  shouted  Sir  Michael,  "how  well 
you  play.  The  Divine  Love  loves  the  leaf  into 
the  Divine  Memory.  Children,  the  game  is  over : 
I  close  the  ecole  maternelle! 

"And  now,"  he  said  gravely,  resuming  his  usual 
manner,  "let  us  approach  our  problem  abstractly. 
Let  us  harken  unto  the  gospel  according  to  Sir 
Michael. 

"First,  then,  we  have  the  Chance.  It  is  fecund, 
creative,  matrix;  it  makes  Things.  I  think  it  is 
blind,  motiveless,  goalless — I  do  not  know — but 
it  makes,  makes,  makes !  It  is  mystery,  unknow- 
able, ineffable — and  it  makes! 

"Then  comes  the  Love.  Tenderly,  one  by  one, 
it  sorts  the  myriad  makings  of  the  Chance.  And 
257 


GLAMOURIE 

the  failure  it  casts  aside,  to  pass  away,  reabsorbed 
perhaps  (God  knows!)  into  the  matrix  of  the 
Chance.  But  the  good  making,  the  beautiful,  the 
high,  it  clasps  fervently  and  loves  it,  by  a  glow- 
ing, electric  rush  of  love,  into  the  Divine  Memory. 
And  there  it  dwells  forever,  that  perfected  mak- 
ing, not  as  a  vague  emotion,  not  as  a  mental 
shadow,  but  as  Thing — Thing  glorified,  to  be  sure, 
by  the  touch  of  the  Love,  but  still  Thing ! 

"Children,  I  know  this  is  true ;  for  I  have  seen 
and  touched  and  lived  it  all,  in  the  Over- Paris. 

"And  now  jarniprisme!"  he  cried,  "and  j'arni- 
prisme  again  and  thrice  jarniprisme!  For  I  teach 
you  now  of  the  Divine  Love  and  in  that  wondrous 
teaching  do  pluck  out  and  consume  the  tap-root 
of  human  worship.  As  I  speak  Rome  shudders, 
the  Protest  reels  like  a  drunken  man,  and  Priest- 
craft shrivels  like  paper  that  is  scorched.  Are 
you  listening,  O  Heaven-spinners?" 

Were  we  listening! 

"Know  then,"  he  continued,  "that  we  are  the 
Divine  Love.  We ! — toward  whom  life  has  evolved 
through  the  aeons — We! 

"We  are  not  fallen  angels,  my  children ;  we  are 
not  victims  of  a  primal  curse;  we  are  not  nuclei 
of  blind  forces.  We  are  Volitions!  We  are 
Choosers!  We  are  Heaven-spinners!  And  our 

258 


LA  LANTERNE  DE  DIOGENE 

high  function  is  Love ! — the  Love  that  wills  that 
loveliness  shall  dwell  eternally  in  the  Memory  Di- 
vine. 

"Have  you  ever,"  he  asked,  his  voice  sinking 
again  reverently,  "felt  a  sudden  glow  and  flow 
Divinity  into  your  souls  ? — a  Something  infinitely 
sacred,  a  Something  born  of  a  sunset,  perhaps,  a 
mountain-peak,  a  bird-song,  a  flower?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Golden;  "often.  I  called  it 
it  the  God-sense." 

Sir  Michael  looked  at  me.     I  nodded. 

"And  Christians  name  it  the  Holy  Ghost,"  said 
he;  "and  Quakers,  the  Light;  and  Calvinists,  a 
sign  of  election;  and  it  has  its  name  and  part  in 
all  sects  and  creeds,  for  it  is  the  root  and  mother 
of  them  all. 

"But — now  harken  to  the  gospel  according  to 
Sir  Michael ! — mankind  has  mistaken  the  direction 
of  this  flow  of  the  Divine. 

"It  is  from  us,  not  to  us! 

"This  is  my  great  thought-gift  to  the  world — 

"It  is  from  us,  not  to  us! 

"So  the  Holy  Spirit  is  not  a  dove  descending, 
but  a  homing  thought  carrying  a  beauty  from  us  >-~ 
to  the  Divine  Memory.  So  the  Mystic  Light 
comes  not  from  above,  but  flashes  upward  from 
the  fire  within  us.  So  our  function  as  volitions, 
259 


GLAMOURIE 

as  Heaven-spinners,  as  nerve-threads  in  the  cosmic 
plan,  is  not  to  receive,  but  to  give,  give  and  eter- 
nally to  give!" 

"Some  of  the  nerve-threads,  Sir  Michael,"  I 
suggested,  "don't  fulfil  their  function." 

"There  are  haters,"  he  admitted,  "sensualists, 
egoists  and  cruel  people.  Such  as  these,  perhaps 
(God  knows!)  go  to  their  own  place,  back  into 
the  matrix  of  the  Chance.  I  do  not  know;  nor 
do  I  care.  Hate  and  egoism  create  nothing.  Love 
is  all.  Love,  doing  its  love-work — this  is  life! 

"And  now,  my  children,  my  first  disciples,  I 
have  given  you  a  shadowy  outline  of  the  cosmic 
plan.  Remember  that  all  this  is  quite  simple, 
mechanic,  natural.  It  needs  no  revelation,  no 
bible,  no  faith,  no  miracle ;  for,  as  you  will  see  in 
the  end,  it  proves  itself  like  a  problem  in  Euclid. 

"There  are  no  Amens  in  my  cult ;  nothing  but 
Q.  E.  D. 

"Hence,  after  this  preparation,  I  can  continue 
and  tell  you  of  the  way  that  led  me,  as  it  will  lead 
at  last  all  the  world,  up  into  the  Over-Dream. 

"But  first,"  he  added,  "we  will  eat  a  little  lunch 
that  I  have  in  a  basket  in  the  woods  yonder;  for 
Heaven-spinners  and  mighty  Prophets  alike  must 
be  fed  on  this  lower  plane.  We  avoid  that  need 
in  the  Over-Paris." 

260 


XVIII 

MECHANICS 

"I  HAD  formulated  my  philosophy,"  resumed 
Sir  Michael,  after  we  had  lunched  and  sauntered 
back  to  the  Lanterne  de  Diogene,  "I  had  discov- 
ered the  direction  of  the  love-flow,  some  months 
before  I  met  you,  Jack,  at  the  Hall  of  the  Inno- 
cents. You  remember  the  diagram  I  mystified 
you  with?" 

I  remembered. 

"That  was  the  beginning.  Then  I  fell  in  love 
with  Paris ! — and  that  love  brought  new  thoughts. 
I  argued  that  no  Thing  on  earth  has  been  so  loved 
as  Paris,  and  that  therefore  it  must  be  the  most 
vivid  Thing  in  the  Divine  Memory. 

"Further,  I,  to  whom  the  warmth  of  human 
passion  had  been  denied,  was  by  the  force  of  my 
volition  and  the  purity  of  my  love  the  greatest 
lover  that  my  city  had  ever  known. 

"No  man,  I  repeat,  has  ever  loved  a  Thing  as 
I  have  loved  Paris! 

261 


GLAMOURIE 

"There  was  the  Over- Paris,  then,  waiting  beau- 
tiful in  the  Divine  Memory. 

"There  was  I,  then,  sending  by  the  flow  of  my 
love  new  wonders  up  to  Her. 

"The  gulf  was  bridged ! — bridged  by  my  love. 

"What  next?  Why,  my  Soul  on  that  bridge! 
Myself  on  that  rushing  flow! — and  the  thing 
would  be  done. 

"So  I  tried. 

"Notre  Dame! — surely  the  most  vivid  beauty 
in  the  over-city — I  set  myself  to  loving  that." 

"Ah,"  I  interrupted,  "that  accounts  for  your 
watchings  on  the  Quai  d'Orleans." 

"So  you  knew  and  wondered,"  said  he;  "yes, 
that  accounts.  A  year!  For  more  than  a  year  I 
tried  to  love  myself  into  the  Over-Paris. 

"I  failed!  I  don't  know  why;  but  I  failed 
egregiously. 

"Egregiously ! 

"Then  came  the  English  episode.  I  rushed  over 
— you  both  know  why." 

I  knew ! — Golden ! — Golden ! 

"And,  by  the  way,"  asked  Sir  Michael,  smiling 
whimsically,  "have  you  seen  my  brother  Ernest  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "once." 

"Friendly?" 

"Not  noticeably." 

262 


MECHANICS 

"Happenings?" 

"He  kicked  Prism  and  I  promised  to  horsewhip 
him,  if— 

"I  can  guess  that  if,  Jack.  That's  one  of  the 
reasons  why  I  put  you  on  guard.  But  he  will  not 
bother  you.  Poor  dear  old  Ernest! — it  is  jolly 
hard  luck  to  get  wedged,  early  in  life,  in  the  crack 
of  a  crystal.  Feet  get  atrophied,  to  say  nothing 
of  wings.  But  he  may  make  an  excellent  peer  of 
the  realm,  that  poor  old  Ernest! 

"However,  enough  of  him.  I  went  to  England. 
Mother  Mag  comforted  me  and  I  started  happily 
Paris-ward. 

"Then  my  inheritance — brrr!  Athlone!  Paris 
lost  and  the  Over-Paris — oh  God,  children !  what 
an  abomination  of  darkness! 

"Then  light  came — came  in  jarniprismatic 
flashes.  You  know  the  story,  and  how  I  re-entered 
Paris,  leaving  Michael  Burke  drifting  dead  on  the 
Channel  waves. 

"Then  appeared  O.  Tequi,  a  waif  of  unpleasing 
exterior,  unbalanced  reason  and  ambiguous  na- 
tionality. Quel  type,  hein?  ce  pauvre  Tequi! 

"Then  what?  I  determined  to  purge  my  soul 
of  hatred.  I  summoned  all  my  will,  all  my  tender- 
ness, and  /  forgave  the  Prussians!" 

Sir  Michael  said  this  with  such  a  glow  of  self- 
263 


GLAMOURIE 

conscious  virtue  that  Golden  and  I  shook  with 
laughter. 

Sir  Michael  watched  us  gravely  for  a  moment 
and  then  solemnly  repeated,  "I  forgave  the  Prus- 
sians! Why  not? — such  are  but  the  abortive 
nerve-threads;  failures,  they  go  back  into  the 
matrix  of  the  Chance.  But  Paris  in  the  Over- 
Dream — that  is  eternal!" 

"Did  you  especially  forgive  Bismarck  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  did  the  thing  collectively,"  he  answered, 
smiling  gaily ;  "and  let  it  go  at  that.  Back  to  the 
matrix,  where  all  hates  and  evils  go — why  not 
forgive,  and  forget  them? 

"But  to  continue.  These  changes  changed  me. 
One  does  not  cease  to  be  Sir  Michael  Burke  as 
one  pulls  off  a  glove.  One  does  not  become  Q. 
Tequi  as  one  pulls  on  another.  No ;  it  is  a  wrench- 
ing process ! 

"But  it  was  done.  And  on  a  wonderful  Wednes- 
day (just  a  week  after  the  affair  on  the  Celtic) 
I  set  myself  again  to  my  task. 

"I  succeeded  on  the  first  trail!" 

"Tell  us  how  you  did  it,  Cousin  Michael,"  said 
Golden. 

"There  was  never  anything  easier,"  he  an- 
swered. "Looking  out  on  the  river  from  my  win- 
dow on  the  Quai,  I  loved  it  upward — ah  God, 
264 


MECHANICS 

children !  how  I  loved  it.  Then,  by  a  wild  wrench 
of  the  will — that  is  where  the  will  comes  in — I 
threw  on  the  glowing  rush  of  that  love  my  soul, 
the  soul  of  the  dead  Sir  Michael  Burke;  and  he 
(or,  if  you  please,  I)  floated  quite  gently  into  the 
Over-Paris. 

"It  was  as  easy  as  breathing. 

"I  found  myself  standing  on  the  Quai 
d'Orleans  looking  at  the  eastern  end  of  Notre 
Dame.  It  was  the  spot  haunted  so  long  by  that 
whilom  Irish  hunchback — who  is  now  prophet  and 
seer." 

"What  did  you  do  then?"  I  asked,  for  Sir  Mi- 
chael was  lost  in  the  memory  of  his  vision. 

"I  felt  of  the  stone  parapet,"  he  answered;  "I 
stamped  on  the  pavement;  I  drew  in  a  great 
breath  of  that  divine  air;  and  then — I  wept  for 
joy." 

"And  it  was  real  ?"  asked  Golden. 

"Real?"  he  shouted.  "It  was  more  real  than 
real :  it  was  Thing,  I  tell  you !  Listen  and  I  will 
try  to  explain.  A  landscape  is  more  real  than  a 
picture  of  it?" 

"Surely." 

"In  exactly  the  same  way  is  the  Over-Paris 
more  Thing  than  that  Paris  we  see  down  there. 
Again;  a  great  painting  is  more  ideal,  more 

18 


GLAMOURIE 

touched  with  mood  and  Godlikeness,  than  the 
landscape  its  archetype?" 

"Yes." 

"In  exactly  the  same  way  is  the  Over-Paris 
spiritualised  and  God-tinted.  Ah,  mes  enfants, 
it  is  a  long  step  deeper  into  the  Real  and  a  long 
flight  higher  into  the  Ideal,  that  realm  of  the 
Over-Dream." 

"Tell  us,  Cousin  Michael,"  said  Golden,  "how 
you  looked  yourself." 

"Why,  Golden,"  he  answered,  laughing,  "like 
another  famous  Crookback,  I  found  myself  a  mar- 
vellously proper  man.  My  face ! — I  spent  a  good 
hour  before  a  certain  mirrored  window.  I  saw 
Italy  in  my  face.  Why?" 

"It  was  the  Eve  of  Sodoma,  Sir  Michael," 
said  I. 

"The  Eve  drawn,  as  I  had  been,  from  Hades." 
He  made  that  vague,  clutching  gesture  sky- 
wards. "But  let  me  tell  you  more  of  the  Over- 
Paris. 

"A  personable  gentleman,  then,  I  started  from 
the  leafy  Quai  d'Orleans  and  rambled  over  the 
city.  No!  I  cannot,  children,  I  cannot!  Words 
are  just  words:  they  can't  reproduce  the  tingle 
and  throb  of  eye,  ear  and  finger.  They  can't  make 
you  sense  how  to  eye,  ear  and  finger  the  Over- 
266 


MECHANICS 

World  gleams  and  sings  and  pulsates  with  the 
Love,  the  human  love,  that  builded  it  in  the  Di- 
vine Memory.  Words  can't  do  it — you  must  see 
and  hear  and  touch  to  understand. 

"See?  Yes,  my  children,  see! — and  something 
more  than  see.  Fancy  a  statue,  some  pure,  white, 
Greek,  marble  thing,  standing  on  a  pedestal,  all 
white  marble  too,  the  centre  of  a  lucent  circle 
of  breeze-stirred  water.  The  sunshine,  broken 
by  the  wavelets,  strikes  up  on  the  marble  to  me- 
ander there  in  wavering  intricacies  of  silver  inter- 
weavings,  in  happy  intimacies  of  tangled  light. 
Light,  did  I  say? — call  it  Love  and  envisage  the 
Over-Paris. 

"Hear?  Yes.  my  children,  hear! — and  some- 
thing more  than  hear.  Fancy  the  Ninth  Sym- 
phony as,  without  the  sound  of  any  instrument, 
its  harmonies  in  waves  of  majestic  silence  surged 
(not  as  music,  but  as  thought)  through  the  soul 
of  the  deaf  Beethoven.  Fancy  his  spirit  vibrat- 
ing, fulfilled  and  ecstatic  with  that  soundless  mu- 
sic. Music,  did  I  say  ? — call  it  Love  and  listen  to 
the  Over-Paris. 

"Touch?  Yes,  my  children,  touch!  and  some- 
thing more  than  touch !  Fancy  two  lovers  sitting 
together,  her  scented  hair  blowing  across  his  face, 
his  fervent  hand  clasping  hers.  Sacred  meanings 
267 


GLAMOURIE 

quiver  electric  between  their  souls,  holy  thrills  and 
throbs  and  wordless  communings. 

"In  the  Over- World  such  meanings  flow  from 
the  Thing  Itself  and  from  every  wonder-phase  of 
the  miracle  we  call  the  tangible.  Tangible,  did 
I  say? — call  it  Love  and  feel  the  Over-Paris." 

"Not  twain,  but  one,"  sang  Golden  softly,  look- 
ing tenderly  at  the  Master, 

"Not  twain  but  one  when  the  dream  is  done, 

And  I  rise  on  pinions  gleaming 
To  the  higher  Height  and  the  larger  Light, 

Said  Love  in  the  shadow,  dreaming." 

"Not  twain  but  one,"  echoed  Sir  Michael; 
"thank  you,  golden  singer!  So,  no  pictures.  I 
can't  word-paint  you  Love,  that,  as  a  meandering 
light,  as  a  silent  music,  as  a  tangible  thing,  has 
built  and  is  forever  building  the  Over- World. 
But  this  I  can  do :  I  can  give  you  motions,  flashes 
of  change,  the  Love  at  work! 

"The  Love  at  work!  The  Love  that  is  We! 
Listen ! 

"During  my  third  or  fourth  visit  to  the  Over- 
Paris,  as  I  was  wandering  hither  and  yon  through 
its  space  and  time  (one  is  as  simple  as  the  other !), 
I  chanced  on  the  little  pond  near  the  Pavilion 
de  Flore.  You  know  the  spot  well,  my  children." 
268 


MECHANICS 

I  knew  it  well.    Ah,  how  well ! — how  well ! 

"There  was  a  pair  of  young  lovers  circling  the 
pool.  Happy  things ! — drawn  together  by  some- 
thing holier  and  higher  than  the  subtle  magnetism 
of  sex,  they  radiated  their  love  and  each  other 
and  the  beauty  around  them  up  into  the  Over- 
Paris. 

"  'The  ban  Dieu  is  very  good  to  us,  my  Et- 
ienne,'  I  heard  the  girl  say,  'and  I  love  Him  in 
everything  now,  in  the  trees  and  the  water,  the  sky 
and  the  grass.'  As  she  spoke,  new  lovelinesses 
shimmered  everywhere;  and  you,  my  Jack,  flashed 
like  a  gentle  phantom  into  the  Over-Paris.  How 
angelic  you  shone  in  that  divine  photography ! 

"That's  the  love  at  work,  mes  enfants;  and  you 
have  in  that  little  example  all  the  mechanics  you 
need. 

"And  how  simple  it  all  is.  The  serpent  takes 
his  tail  in  his  mouth.  The  logical  circle  is  com- 
plete. For  behold:  I  postulate  the  direction  of 
the  love-flow;  I  predicate  the  Over- World;  I  be- 
siege and  conquer  the  Over-Paris;  and  I  see  the 
Love  at  work!  Voila!  Q.  E.  D.! 

"What  an  earth  this  will  be,  my  Heaven-spin- 
ners, when  my  law  is  known ! 

"Think  of  it — the  whole  world  doing  con- 
sciously what,  up  to  this  great  day,  a  few  rare 
269 


GLAMOURIE 

souls  have  done  unconsciously.  The  whole  living 
world  loving  upward,  building  the  world  to  be ! 

"All !  All  life  shall  share — life  universal,  issu- 
ing blind  from  the  matrix  of  the  Chance,  shall 
struggle  up  through  worm  and  beast  in  mounting 
spirals  to  man,  to  my  light  and  the  Beyond. 

"The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  within  us !  Within 
us,  just  as  the  statue  is  in  the  brain  of  the  sculptor. 

"But,  farniprisme! — what  a  crumbling  of  crys- 
tals ! — what  a  freeing  of  pinched  Protests ! — what 
wings  in  the  spacious  air ! 

"I  love  every  religion  now,  even  my  old  Roman 
petrifaction,  for  its  dumb,  blind  efforts  towards 
the  light. 

"O  camel-driver  of  Arabia!  O  son  of  Maya- 
Devi  !  O  God-loving  Nazarene !  O  Prophets  of 
all  times  and  lands! — how  shall  your  words  re- 
kindle and  quicken  as  the  Word  you  tried  to  say 
shall  thunder  forth  at  last! 

"And  Philosophy! — Spinoza,  Descartes,  Pascal 
— would  that  ye,  too,  were  here  to  bask  in  the 
flame  ye  helped  to  feed.  I  should  like  to  talk  with 
that  poor  Pascal! 

"And  Art !  You  once  asked,  my  golden  cousin, 
why  people  forever  paint,  carve,  rhyme  and  phrase 
the  comelinesses  of  earth. 

"Now  you  know!  It  is  all  part  of  the  effort 
270 


MECHANICS 

to  prefect  the  Thing,  by  love,  into  the  Over- 
World.  And  the  only  worthy  art  is  that  which 
shows  this  effort. 

"There  is  the  touchstone  for  all  art,  you  see; 
the  guide  to  all  the  galleries.  Thou  shalt  not 
make  unto  thyself  any  graven  image,  or  picture, 
or  poem ;  thou  shalt  love  it  upward,  Godward,  in 
perfect  love.  That  is  the  definitive  commandment 
of  art." 

Golden  suddenly  interrupted. 

"How  about  the  Impressionists?"  she  asked 
roguishly. 

"Ha;  the  Impressionists,  the  Colourists,  the 
Luminarists,  the  Pointillistes,"  he  answered; 
"God  bless  them !  The  Over-Paris  is  all  a-quiver 
with  their  gifts." 

"And  music?"  I  asked. 

He  raised  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  dumb  ad- 
miration. 

"Music,  oh  God,  man !  what  music.  But  I  have 
still  an  experiment  to  try.  I  v  have  risen  to  my 
over-city  on  colour-love,  on  form-love,  on  touch- 
love.  Not  on  music.  I  essay  that  next  Sunday. 
You  may  assist.  The  Stabat  Mater  is  to  be  given 
at  St.  Eustache.  I  shall  cross,  God  willing,  on 
that  noble  bridge." 

Sir  Michael  then  expounded,  in  abstract  terms, 
271 


GLAMOURIE 

the  philosophy  of  "Love  at  work."  He  was  so 
subtle,  both  as  to  form  and  phrasing,  that  I  re- 
serve his  exposition  for  future  use.  It  will  appear 
in  the  Book  of  Jarniprismes. 

One  other  example  of  "heaven-spinning,"  how~ 
ever,  I  can  quote. 

"I  went  to  the  Pantheon,"  said  the  Master,  "and 
tried  to  get  back  from  there  into  Roman  Lutetia. 
Hard  work! — they  fought  well  and  loved  little, 
those  iron  men  of  Rome.  Yet  somehow  I  got 
backward  and  backward — will  is  wings  in  the 
Over-Dream — and  I  stood  at  last  on  a  shadowy 
Mons  Lucotitius. 

"Then  I  had  a  stroke  of  good  luck.  There  was 
a  voice,  a  sonorous  voice,  rolling  good  Latin.  I 
blessed  God  for  my  classics  and  listened.  'Jove,' 
said  the  deep  voice,  'I  give  it,  I  dedicate  it  all  to 
thee,  this  dream  of  my  brain,  this  toil  of  my  hands. 
Smile  on  my  work,  O  greatest  of  all  the  gods,  and 
bless  the  pure  water  I  have  brought  to  thy  dear 
Lutetia.' 

"And  as  the  voice  spoke,  Roman  Paris  flashed 
fair  into  view.  I  saw,  far  away,  the  temple  of 
Mars  on  Montmartre,  the  wooded  heights  of 
Menilmontant,  and  the  marais  between.  I  saw  a 
bridge  joining  the  Cite  with  the  right  bank  and 
another  where  the  Petit  Pont  now  stands.  The 
272 


MECHANICS 

vanished  islands  showed  green  in  the  shining 
river ;  and  the  great  marsh  stretched  green  to  east- 
ward. The  Cite  was  crowded  with  houses  as  to- 
day, but  on  the  left  bank  stood  only  the  palace  of 
the  emperor  in  the  midst  of  its  walled  park.  The 
arena,  gleaming  chalk-white  in  the  sun,  lay  east- 
ward half  way  down  Mons  Lucotitius. 

"And  far  away  to  the  south,  I  saw  the  arches 
of  the  great  aqueduct  crossing  the  Bievre  at 
Arcueil — the  aqueduct  that  the  voice  of  its  builder 
had  dedicated  to  Jove.  That  was  Lutetia,  the 
'dear  Lutetia'  of  Julian  the  Apostate. 

"The  Love  at  work! — you  see  it  there  again: 
beauty  made  eternal  by  the  unconscious  fiat  of 
love. 

"But,  behold !"  Sir  Michael  exclaimed,  "the  co- 
horts of  Baedeker  approach.  A  demain,  at  the 
Quand-meme  at  two.  I  go  back  to  Q.  Tequi." 

And  he  fled  into  the  woods  with  a  parting  shout 
to  us  over  his  shoulder. 

"Tell  Mother  Mag!"  he  cried. 

Golden  looked  after  him,  her  eyes  alight,  her 
lips  parted. 

"He  is  a  great,  great  man,"  she  whispered. 

"He  is  the  greatest  man  on  earth  to-day,  Miss 
Golden,"  I  answered ;  "the  purest,  highest,  noblest 
soul." 

273 


GLAMOURIE 

How  well  I  understood,  better  far  than  she 
could  understand,  why  the  Master  called  us 
"Heaven-spinners."  Her  pure,  perfect  passion  for 
him ;  my  deep,  hopeless  love  for  her — I  may  own 
it  now,  without  disloyalty,  in  my  heart  of  hearts — 
had  projected  all  we  had  seen  in  our  happy  days 
together  up  to  his  strange  over- world. 

I  am  above  all  sorrow  now.  I  have  seen  and 
been  a  part  of  great  things ;  and  I  breathe  serenely 
in  the  vibrant  ether  of  their  love. 


XIX 

THE  SIX  DAYS 

OUR  meeting  on  Tuesday  under  the  "Quand- 
Meme !"  has  been  recorded.  But  I  did  not  record 
the  presence  of  Golden  or  of  Q.  Tequi.  It  was  he, 
black-\vigged,  slouch-hatted,  dark-spectacled  and 
baggily  velveteened,  that  shouted  and  gesticulated 
in  the  opening  chapter. 

Thus  mended,  it  is  a  true  history  of  that  Tues- 
day. 

On  Wednesday  I  called  on  the  Master  at  his 
studio  on  the  Quai  Bourbon. 

I  was  surprised  to  note  that  his  sketches  in  oil 
were  not  bad.  I  said  so. 

"They  serve  their  painty  purpose,"  he  answered, 
waving  them  away  with  a  gesture;  "they  complete 
Q.  Tequi.  But  here  is  my  real  work.  And  yours 
too,  my  poor  Jack,  yours  too !  The  Book  of  Jarni- 
prismes !" 

And  he  handed  me  a  huge  volume  of  manu- 
script. 

275 


GLAMOURIE 

"There!"  he  exclaimed;  "you  hold  my  brain,  as 
Hamlet  held  the  scull  of  Yorick,  in  your  fingers. 
Alas,  poor  Yorick!  Alas,  Jack-Hamlet!  There 
are  my  thoughts,  my  dreams,  my  aspirations,  my 
nonsense,  of  ten  years.  Keep  it  safe;  and  after 
you  have  finished  my  story,  open  that  mad  book, 
sort  it,  sift  it,  and  give  it  to  the  world.  After, 
my  Jack,  mark  that  after;  for  its  inner  meanings 
will  be  hidden  to  those  that  know  not  me. 

"Now  go ;  take  my  Yorick  scull ;  and  leave  me 
to  my  wonders.  To-morrow,  meet  me  and  Golden 
at  the  Cafe  de  la  Regence  at  three." 

On  Thursday,  as  he  appointed,  we  met  at  this 
trysting  place.  There  is  a  sort  of  little  loggia  at 
the  Regence,  somewhat  back  from  the  street ;  and 
in  that  nook  the  Master,  his  black-wigged  head 
just  above  the  marble  table,  gazed  happily  out  on 
his  dear  Paris,  drank  his  favourite  sirop  de 
groseille  and  spoke  to  Golden  and  me. 

This  meeting  can  have  for  the  present  but  a 
partial  record.  Much  was  too  intimate,  deep  and 
personal  to  be  given  to  the  world;  and  much,  as 
in  the  conversation  at  the  Lanterne,  was  over 
metaphysical  for  the  purpose  of  this  story.  I  re- 
serve such  abstractions  for  the  Book  of  Jarni- 
prismes. 

Some  detached  sayings,  however,  touching  the 
376 


THE  SIX  DAYS 

work-a-day  aspects  of  his  truth  may  be  written 
here. 

*  *       * 

"Jack,  you  New  England  mystic !    Golden,  you  K 
Celtic  dreamer ! — what  masons  you  are !    You  will 
be  content  with  your  building  when  you  see  it  in 
the  Over-World." 

*  *       * 

"No,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  a  question,  "there 
is  a  world  over  that ;  and  over  that  another ;  and 
so  to  infinity.  I  have  had  hints  already  of  the 
Over-Over-Paris.  But  the  mechanism  must  be 
the  same :  Love  is  the  builder  of  all." 

*  *       * 

"It  must  be  so.  Life  can  only  justify  itself  by 
eternal  wing-growings." 

*  *       * 

"O  the  oneness  of  love !"  taking  a  rose  from  his 
Golden.  "The  glow  and  perfume  of  this  flower 
through  me  pervades  the  universe." 

*  *       * 

"Love  is  the  eye  of  the  Creator  who  sees  that 
His  work  is  good." 

*  *       * 

"Suffer  little  children :  of  such  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven,  said  Jesus.    Just  so! — we  are  forever 
277 


GLAMOURIE 

loving  their  innocence  and  loveliness  up  to  the 

Over-World." 

*  *       * 

"Our  meaning?  To  write  His  thoughts  in  the 
book  we  call  Heaven !" 

*  *       * 

"Saint  Francis  of  Assisi  is  my  only  saint. 
Think  of  the  bird-songs  he  loved  into  the  Over- 
Dream!" 

*  *       * 

"Hell?  Yes,  children,  and  a  deep.  What  has 
the  soul  to  rise  to  that  has  loved  nothing  up- 
wards ?" 

*  *       * 

"Heaven?  Yes,  children.  Whatever  we  love 
worthily  we,  aspiring,  shall  find  again." 

*  *       * 

"Ten  commandments  ?  There  is  only  one :  Vi- 
brate, thou  Nerve!" 

*  *       * 

"The  old  commandments  are  rules  of  psychic 
hygiene,  a  crude  catalogue  of  acts  that  impair  vi- 
bration." 

*  *       * 

"Whoever  says  'God  bless  it !'  deep  enough,  cre- 
ates an  eternal  Thing." 

278 


THE  SIX  DAYS 

"It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  apple  of  Eden  to  the 
apple  of  Newton;  farther  still  from  Mount  Sinai 

to  the  Lanterne  de  Diogene !" 

*  *       * 

"My  truth  is  for  the  Individual:  it  can't  be 
syndicated !  If  two  or  three  are  gathered  together 

in  my  name  they  dim  the  light." 

*  *       * 

"All  religions  have  taught  selflessness;  but  I 

alone  have  shown  the  mechanics  of  the  thing." 

*  *       * 

"The  mechanics!     Come  with  me,"  he  said, 

"and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  saw  during  my  last  wing- 
ing into  the  past.  Come!" 

He  led  us  from  the  Regence  (the  reader  would 
do  well  to  make  a  loving  pilgrimage  over  the  same 
route)  across  the  Place  du  Theatre  Francois,  up 
the  Avenue  de  1' Opera  to  the  Rue  Sainte  Anne 
and  up  that  street  by  a  gentle  grade  to  its  junction 
with  the  Rue  Therese. 

"See,"  said  Sir  Michael,  stopping,  "we  stand 
on  the  summit  of  a  hillock.  It  slopes  north  and 
south  on  the  Rue  Sainte  Anne,  east  and  west  on 
the  Rue  Therese.  It  is  History,  this  little  hill! 
It  is  Memory ! 

"I  stood  here  last  night  in  the  Over-Paris. 
Near  me  rose  two  windmills  with  idle  sails.  They 
still  give  a  name  to  the  Rue  des  Moulins  hard  by. 
279 


GLAMOURIE 

"I  saw  in  the  direction  of  the  Palais  Royal  the 
curving,  grey  wall  of  old  Paris,  the  enceinte  de 
Charles  V. 

"Tust  where  the  Regence  now  stands  was  the 
Porte  St.  Honore  with  its  sharp  roof  and  flanking 
tourelles. 

"Toward  the  Opera,  toward  the  Arc  de  1'Etoile, 
all  was  green  country,  scattered  trees  and  snaking 
footways.  And  through  the  green  meandered  the 
bright  rivulet  of  Menilmontant,  now  a  dark 
stream  of  the  underworld. 

"Paris  herself  I  could  not  see,  save  that  here 
and  there  a  spire  or  a  peaked  roof  higher  than 
the  rest,  showed  above  the  wall.  But  wisps 
of  wood  smoke,  blue  and  homelike,  floated  up 
from  the  hidden  city,  telling  of  warm  human  life 
below. 

"I  marvelled  greatly  at  the  sweetness  and  mystic 
purity  of  the  scene;  for  men  were  greedy  and 
cruel  and  loved  to  small  purpose  in  the  old,  dead 
days.  And  while  I  marvelled  a  shining  woman 
figure  on  a  great  white  horse  rode  slowly  by,  skirt- 
ing my  hillock.  She  was  clad  in  gleaming  armour 
and  carried  a  white  banner  whereon  was  pictured 
the  Virgin  and  the  golden  lilies  of  France. 

"Then  I  understood!  Her  spirit-haunted  eyes 
looking  tenderly  toward  the  city  told  me  all.  Once 
280 


THE  SIX  DAYS 

more  had  I  seen  high  love  at  work.  For  the  shin- 
ing woman  was  the  maid  of  Orleans,  the  dreamer 
of  great  dreams  in  the  orchards  of  Domremy." 

We  parted  soon  after  this  and  Golden  and  I 
walked  back  together  across  the  Gardens. 

Thus  closed  the  Thursday. 

Friday  brought  Golden  a  note,  a  short,  cramped 
scrawl,  from  Mother  Mag.  "The  Lord  be 
thanked,"  she  wrote,  "that  he  is  well.  But  watch 
him  well,  Golden  darling." 

Golden  showed  this  letter  to  Sir  Michael  as  we 
strolled  together  on  the  Quai  d'Orleans  that  after- 
noon. 

"Dear  old  woman,"  he  said;  "I  have  neglected 
her.  I  shall  go  to  England  and  visit  her  the  com- 
ing week.  Something  of  a  risk  that! — for  Q. 
Tequi  would  be  counterfeit  coin  in  Ipswich." 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  then  laughed  merrily 
and  cried,  "Prussians! — I  have  it — a  lark.  We'll 
make  a  colossal  lark  of  it.  We'll  all  go  incognito 
as  Prussians,  or  pedlars,  or  pirates.  I'll  devise  an 
impenetrable  panoply  of  disguise.  Something 
humorous  and  jarniprismatic.  Mother  Mag  shall 
laugh,  that  dear  old  mother  of  mine." 

Sir  Michael  was  reminiscent  that  Friday.  His 
visions  were  only  glanced  at.  "I  preen  my  wings," 
said  he;  "let  us  talk  of  the  story." 

19  281 


GLAMOURIE 

We  did  so,  for  two  happy  hours,  and  at  the  end 
had  scaffolded  the  tale  almost  as  it  is  written. 
The  Master  was  just  as  we  had  known  him  be- 
fore the  Victory,  full  of  mad  sayings  and  Celtish 
quips. 

Thus  passed  the  Friday. 

On  Saturday  a  new  whimsey  seized  him,  a  most 
human  whimsey. 

"Jack,"  he  said — we  were  then  in  his  cache  on 
the  Quai  Bourbon — "here  are  my  paints,  my 
brushes  and  a  fair  canvas,  newly  stretched.  Stay 
here,  an  you  love  me,  till  our  return  and  create 
me  a  masterpiece.  I  loan  you  my  river,  my 
quais,  the  trees  thereon,  yonder  bit  of  Notre 
Dame  and  my  Parisian  sunshine.  Do  with 
them  what  you  will.  As  to  me,  I  shall  take 
Golden  down  the  river  to  Bellevue,  where  we 
shall  lunch,  looking  down  on  my  city.  It  will 
do  you  a  world  of  good,  my  gregarious  Jack,  to 
be  alone." 

So  they  left  me  and  I  set  doggedly  to  work  on 
the  canvas.  Never,  I  fancy,  have  so  many  shades 
of  excellent  paint  been  juxtaposed  with  such  an 
idiotic  result.  I  labelled  it  "Le  Cauchemar  de 
Notre  Dame"  and  sent  it  next  year  to  the  Salon 
des  Independants,  where  it  attracted  day  after  day 
a  gibing  crowd. 

282 


THE  SIX  DAYS 

As  I  was  washing  the  brushes  Sir  Michael  and 
Golden  returned  radiant. 

I  have  rarely  seen  two  faces  that  looked  happier. 

God  bless  them ! 

It  had,  at  least,  done  me  no  harm  to  be  alone. 

So  much  for  the  Saturday. 

Sunday  came  with  gay  sunlight  and  the  holiday 
stir  of  Paris.  It  was  the  day  for  the  trial  of  the 
"bridge  of  music,"  and  I  was  tense  with  strange 
expectations  when  we  three  met  on  the  Pont  des 
Arts. 

Not  so,  to  all  seeming,  was  Sir  Michael. 

"And  now  whither?"  he  cried  gaily — we  were 
crossing  the  court  of  the  Louvre  at  the  time — "no 
slur,  my  Jack,  on  your  native  energy,  but  you 
know  every  short  cut  in  Paris.  What  hypotenuse 
to  St.  Eustache?" 

"Jean-Jacques-Rousseau,"  I  answered,  "the 
same  street  that  led  me  to  our  first  meeting." 

"What  a  meeting!"  he  exclaimed.  "Work  up 
every  smallest,  dullest  detail  of  that  wonder-day 
and  draw  it,  as  I  said  before,  like  a  screen  across 
the  beginning  of  my  story.  You  are  another  man 
in  another  Paris  now,  John  Dwight  of  New  Eng- 
land!" 

"She  has  mastered  me,"  I  assented,  "and  be- 
sides  " 

283 


GLAMOURIE 

I  indicated  Golden  and  him. 

"Paris !  Love ! — that  is  your  colour-box,  my  bi- 
ographical Jack.  You  may  not  produce  liter- 
ature  " 

"I  may  not." 

" — But  you  will  make  light,  the  light  of  my 
love  and  my  city,  play  on  the  facets  of  my 
thought." 

Not  long  after  this  we  reached  St.  Eustache 
and  took  our  places  in  the  nave. 

"Churches  stand  in  Paris,"  murmured  Sir  Mi- 
chael, "like  rhymes  in  a  villanelle.  They  are 
linked  by  echoes  in  stone.  All  except  St 
Eustache !  It  is  rhymeless :  it  has  no  fellow.  Nor 
is  it  comely,  or  solemn,  or  religious.  No;  it  is 
petrescent  pride,  the  pride  of  priestcraft,  a  flower- 
ing in  stone  of  the  Renaissance  of  the  Medicis. 
'Behold !'  it  seems  to  say,  'I  take  your  neo-pagan- 
ism  too  and  mould  it  to  the  Church's  will.' ' 

He  pointed  to  a  patch  of  sunlight  that  had  just 
appeared  on  a  pillar  in  the  choir. 

"Jack,"  he  whispered ;  and  I  felt  that  only  the 
conventions  prevented  a  shout;  "Jack,  the  holiest 
thing  in  every  church  is  the  priestless  sunshine. 
They  stain  it;  they  pinch  it;  but  they  can't  keep 
it  out.  'Forth!'  it  sings,  'leave  your  incense 
smoke,  your  organ  pipes,  your  painted  glass,  and 
284 


THE  SIX  DAYS 

know  the  smell  of  the  heather,  the  song  of  the 
birds  and  Me.'  A  church,  as  Jesus  hinted,  is  a 
precious  poor  place  to  worship  in !" 

Further  jarniprismes  were  foiled  by  the  music, 
as  orchestra  and  choir  joined  in  the  surging  har- 
monies of  the  "Stabat  Mater." 

And  then ! 

Had  I  to  tell  the  story  of  that  hour  it  would 
have  been  written  coldly,  almost  brutally,  with 
hard,  uncoloured  verb  and  noun.  I  should  per- 
force have  trusted  the  reader,  who  knows  some- 
thing of  the  Master  now,  to  find  some  whisper  of 
the  unknown,  some  ghostly  over-word,  in  the  dry 
narration. 

For  the  happening  overflowed  those  pinched 
limits  wherein  we  juggle  with  our  clanging  sym- 
bols of  thoughts  and  things. 

It  was  a  drama  of  new  forces,  of  super-emo- 
tions (I  grope  blindly  for  the  word),  held  lightly 
together  by  the  web  of  time  and  the  tangible.  And 
in  no  sane  waking  hour,  in  his  best  moment  of 
mastery,  could  any  man  (how  far  less  I!)  record 
it  worthily. 

"The  thing,"  to  quote  Sir  Michael,  "is  too  big 
for  gibble-gabble." 

But — surely  no  Boswell  had  ever  such  help  be- 
fore— I  have  not  to  tell  the  story.  Chance  or 
285 


GLAMOURIE 

something  higher  (a  mystery  I  cannot  solve)  has 
come  to  my  aid. 

The  story  has  told  itself ! 

For  to  Golden,  a  few  nights  later,  came  a 
strange,  beautiful  dream. 

She  was  then  in  Ipswich. 

Golden! — the  Celtic  dreamer. 

Ipswich! — the  place  for  auspicious  dreams. 

Mother  Mag  was  dead ;  and  Golden  had  nursed 
her  through  days  and  nights  of  fever  till  the  end. 
She  died  at  last  very  peacefully,  clinging  to  the 
little  hand  that  lay  in  hers,  whispering,  "My  own 
Michael-boy." 

When  all  was  over,  Golden,  exhausted  by  her 
watchings,  fell  asleep. 

And  then  came  the  Dream. 

It  tells  the  story,  at  least  to  me. 

In  that  luminous  mirage  of  what  I  saw  and 
heard  I  see  again  the  triumph  of  the  Master's  love. 
I  read  there  an  interpretation  into  terms  of  eye 
and  ear  of  the  facts  of  that  majestic,  breathless 
hour. 

So  her  dream,  as  Golden  wrote  it  in  her  letter 
to  me,  shall  be  the  record  here. 


XX 

GOLDEN'S  DREAM 

I  SEEMED,  she  wrote,  to  be  sitting  with  you  and 
Cousin  Michael  in  St.  Eustache. 

He  was  between  us,  a  tiny,  flushed,  huddled 
figure,  looking  about  him  with  childlike,  curious 
eyes. 

We  were  alone,  we  three;  though  I  was  some- 
how conscious  of  a  vague,  half-seen  multitude 
that  filled  the  church,  a  throng  wistful  and  cowed 
by  some  ghostly  fear.  Not  a  throng  of  separate 
men  and  women,  you  understand,  but  rather  a 
suffocating  sense  of  human  terror. 

And  the  church  was  Thought !  It  was  all  built 
of  little  thoughts,  fancies,  beliefs,  hopes,  creeds, 
prayers,  dogmas  and  deceits  piled  artfully  one  on 
another.  Squared  columns  rising  austere ;  carved 
capitals  springing  into  whorl  and  leaf;  corbeled 
imposts  and  pendant  bosses — all  were  thought! 
The  straight,  heaven-seeking  lines  of  choir  and 
nave;  the  peeping  arches  of  the  dark  triforium; 
287 


GLAMOURIE 

the  vaulted  height  and  groined  intricacies  of  the 
clerestory;  all  these  were  thought! 

It  was  the  congeries  of  ten  thousand  years  of 
priestcraft.  It  was  Egypt,  Israel,  Greece,  Rome — 
Rome  of  Jove  and  Rome  of  Peter — all  reared, 
fragmentary  and  cabalistic,  into  a  mighty  church. 

And  the  thoughts  seemed  to  be  whispering  to- 
gether; and  I  felt  that  they  were  afraid. 

They  were  saying  something  (I  know  not 
what)  over  and  over,  in  endless  repetition;  and  I 
knew  that  they  were  greatly  afraid. 

And  Cousin  Michael,  tiny,  flushed  and  huddled, 
sat  smiling  at  them  with  radiant,  childlike  eyes. 

Then  a  ray  of  sunshine  slanted  suddenly  down 
from  a  grey  window  of  the  clerestory  and  fell  on 
the  piers  of  the  choir. 

And  the  ray  wandered  softly  here  and  there, 
from  thought  to  thought. 

And  as  it  flashed  and  passed  over  them  the 
thoughts  shrank  and  quivered  until  at  last  the 
whole  great  church  was  a  blurred,  wavering  mass, 
nebulous  and  alive. 

And  I  heard  Cousin  Michael  laugh  gently  as 
he  watched  the  play  of  the  light  with  those  clear, 
childlike  eyes. 

Then  the  church,  this  huge,  tremulous  thing  of 
thoughts,  was  filled  with  billowing  music. 
288 


GOLDEN'S  DREAM 

And  the  music,  wave  on  tremendous  wave,  ten- 
der, caressing,  awful,  flowed  pulsating  through 
the  palpitating  edifice  of  thought. 

Then  Cousin  Michael  took  each  of  us  by  the 
hand,  laughing  gently  still,  and  whispered, 

"Even  here,  O  heaven-spinners,  and  on  the  mu- 
sic, I  shall  conquer!" 

And  his  little  hand  grew  cold  in  mine,  marble 
cold;  and  as  we  looked  down  on  him  his  face 
was  marble  white. 

And  behold! — a  rising  flash  of  light — and 
Something  shot  up,  shining  like  a  strong  swimmer, 
through  the  surging  music  and  out  through  the 
vaulted  choir  roof. 

And  where  it  passed  I  saw  a  great  gap  in  the 
vaulting,  a  gap  jagged  and  blue,  letting  the  free 
sunshine  in. 

And  you  and  I  sat  there  holding  Cousin  Mi- 
chael's tiny,  marble  hands,  not  frightened,  but 
greatly  awestruck  and  wondering. 

Then,  with  a  falling  flash  of  light,  the  Some- 
thing rushed  shining  down ;  and  the  hand  in  mine 
warmed  and  throbbed ;  and  Cousin  Michael  sat  be- 
tween us,  tiny  and  flushed,  looking  up  through 
the  gap  in  the  vault  with  laughing,  childlike  eyes. 

And  the  music  rolled  billowing  above  us;  and 
the  strong  sunshine  that  shone  through  the  gap 
289 


GLAMOURIE 

wandered  hot  and  bright  over  the  shrinking 
thoughts;  and  the  mighty  temple  stirred  and 
writhed  like  some  gelatinous  monster  of  the  sea. 

Then  the  music  stopped  and  the  writhing 
ceased  and  Cousin  Michael,  smiling  tenderly,  drew 
our  hands  together,  yours  and  mine,  until  they 
touched. 

And  he  lifted  my  fingers,  one  by  one,  softly,  as 
if  they  had  been  spring  flowers,  and  placed  them 
within  yours  until  our  hands  were  clasped. 

And  he  raised  our  hands,  so  clasped,  and 
pressed  them  hard  against  his  heart.  And  we 
felt  it  leap  and  flutter,  cease  and  then  leap  again, 
like  some  wild  thing  near  its  death. 

But  Cousin  Michael  was  smiling  gloriously. 
He  looked  long  into  your  face,  always  holding  our 
locked  hands  against  his  heart;  and  I  saw  your 
face  turn  ashen  white  and  then  rosy  red. 

And  he  laughed  gently  at  what  he  saw,  dear 
Cousin  Michael. 

Then  he  looked  at  me ;  and  I  do  not  know  if  I 
grew  white  as  you  did,  but  I  know  that  my  face 
was  burning. 

And  Cousin  Michael  laughed  again. 

And  I  felt  your  strong  hand,  dear  Jack,  my 

love,  my  love — felt  your  true  hand  tighten  on  mine 

and  you  knew  the  truth  at  last,  knew  that  your 

Golden  (how  good  that  sounds)  was  no  splendid, 

290 


GOLDEN'S  DREAM 

aspiring  angel,  but  just  a  simple,  human  girl,  and 
loving,  my  Jack,  so  loving ! 

And  we  heard  Cousin  Michael  whisper  gaily, 
"Harken  to  the  sweet  words  of  the  prophet !  She 
was  yours,  Jack,  from  that  first  evening  by  the 
firelight."  He  was  right,  my  darling,  but  I  can- 
not fancy  how  he  guessed  it. 

And  he  said,  too,  "Great  prophets  have  room 
in  their  hearts  for  one  alone.  When  my  Paris 
gave  me  herself  all  else  became  as  nothing.  You 
were  loyal  to  a  phantom  oath,  my  honest  Jack." 
What  did  he  mean  by  that,  my  dearest? 

And  again,  "Your  love  has  already  spun  me 
rare  beauties,  my  Heaven-spinners,  in  the  world 
to  which  I  go.  I  shall  see  it  still,  while  I  wait  you 
there,  building  in  the  Over-Dream." 

Then  he  pressed  our  clasped  hands  hard,  hard 
against  that  leaping  heart,  and  whispered  sol- 
emnly, "Harken  to  the  last  great  words  of  the 
prophet.  Here,  in  my  own  Paris,  in  the  light  of 
my  truth,  in  the  hallowing  of  the  Over-Dream,  I, 
Michael  Burke,  dying" — we  started,  but  he  tight- 
ened the  pressure  on  our  hands  and  went  on — 
"dying  and  victorious,  pronounce  you  man  and 
wife!  Au  revoir,  dear  lovers!  And  my  Paris, 
au  revoir! " 

And  again  the  music  thundered  and  Cousin  Mi- 
chael parted  our  hands  and  held  them  as  before, 
291 


GLAMOURIE 

and  smiled  as  he  saw  the  church  rocking  like  a 
forest  before  that  tempest  of  sound. 

And  we  heard  him  whisper  his  merry  "jarni- 
prisme!"  and  once  more  his  shining  spirit  (ah,  we 
knew  it  now!)  rent  its  way  out  through  the  quiv- 
ering vault,  leaving  the  whole  choir  open  to  sun 
and  sky. 

And  we  two  sat  there  hopefully,  my  Jack,  hold- 
ing those  small,  cold,  marble  hands. 

And  the  music  surged  away,  fainter  and  fainter, 
through  the  blue  space  above  the  shattered  choir ; 
and  the  thought-builded  church  ceased  to  writhe 
and  seemed  to  stiffen  to  the  stony  rigour  of  death 
while  we  waited — waited. 

But  Cousin  Michael  sat  there  between  us,  quite 
still — a  tiny,  white,  huddled  figure,  looking  up 
smiling  through  the  blue  gap  above  the  altar  with 
dead,  childlike  eyes. 

I  awoke  blessed  with  the  strength  of  the  dream. 
There  is  no  more  sorrow  in  my  heart. 

He  did  not  die,  what  he  was  could  not  die,  as 
this  world  counts  death. 

He  awakened.  He  was  Love  in  the  shadow, 
dear  Jack.  You  remember  his  boyish  song? 

"At  last  I  shall  wake  for  my  Kingdom's  sake 
And  reign  for  the  world's  redeeming, 

In  the  glamour  and  gleam  of  the  Over-Dream 
Said  Love  in  the  shadow,  dreaming." 
292 


ENVOY 

IT  is  a  summer  afternoon,  dear  Master. 

Two  years !  It  has  taken  us  two  long,  beautiful 
Parisian  years  to  write  your  story.  We  have  been 
slow,  Master,  but  not  idle — there  was  so  much  to 
remember,  so  very  much  to  live! 

It  is  done ! — and  Golden  and  I  are  looking  out 
of  the  window,  your  old  magic  window  over  the 
Quai  Voltaire.  We  see  the  river  flowing  green 
below,  the  fluttering  poplars,  the  colour-flecked 
book-stalls,  the  blur  of  passing  life. 

Prism,  unwitting  of  his  invidious  immortality, 
is  gazing  too.  He  is  the  same  sleek  Prism  still; 
no  variableness  in  him! 

The  little  Quand-Meme,  the  boat  you  used  to 
love,  toils  panting  up  the  stream  and  whistles  its 
summons,  as  of  old,  to  the  lock-keeper  at  the 
Monnaie. 

The  Epic  of  the  Seine,  book  by  book,  sings  itself 
into  our  hearts ;  and  Paris,  dimpling  as  she  smiles, 
listens  ecstatic. 

293 


GLAMOURIE 

"Paris !"  as  you  would  say  with  a  great  gesture, 
"Paris!  Paris!" 

Nothing  is  changed  in  the  dear  homely  things. 
The  roaring  Turbigo  still  leads  clamouring  to  the 
quiet  Hall;  and  the  same  blessed  Innocents  still 
weave  the  tangled  intricacies  of  the  oblivious 
game.  Still  your  sparrows,  as  individual  as 
ever,  twitter  for  the  crumbs  of  the  charmer; 
and  your  glimmering  pond  in  the  leafy  garden 
is  circled  by  young  lovers,  murmuring  inter- 
twined. 

There  are  two  at  least  that  are  adepts  in  its 
sweet  geometry!  Have  you  seen  them  there? 

Nor  is  there  change,  dear  Master,  in  subtler 
things.  The  Chimere  feternelle  ("questing!  quest- 
ing! Wings!  D wight,  Wings!")  is  eternally  the 
Chimere;  and  your  mystical  Noun-man,  as  un- 
mystical  as  ever,  is  stoutly  substantive.  He  af- 
firms his  old  golden  heresy:  "J'aime  mieux  ma 
mie."  Do  you  blame  him? 

But  all  this  you  know !  "I  shall  see  your  love," 
you  said,  "while  I  wait  you  there,  building  in  the 
Over-Dream." 

Our  love — and  what  of  our  work,  dear  Master, 
this  poor  book  of  ours,  spun  out  of  the  purest  web 
of  their  hearts  by  your  heaven-spinners  ? 

Surely  you  see  that  too! 
294 


ENVOY 

Surely,  Master ! — for  it  is  all  compact  of  love, 
love  of  your  Paris,  love  of  You. 

So  take  the  book ! — dead,  scentless  dust  of  fra- 
grant days — blurred,  wavering  shadows  cast  by 
the  City  of  Light. 

Yet  even  dust  and  shadows  are  something,  dear 
Master — even  its  dust  and  its  shadows . . .  Paris ! 

.  Paris ! . . 


THE  END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


OCT 1 6 ; 


000136747     3 


